


The Coin of His Shame

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Captivity, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2019-10-25 06:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 97,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17720177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: When Valjean arrives in Arras, he realizes that there isn't only Champmathieu to save, but that Fantine's debts have forced her to sell herself as an indentured servant to the town of Montreuil. It seems impossible to save both Cosette and Champmathieu - until Javert offers Valjean a deal: sign himself over into indenture as well... which would place Valjean directly into Javert's power.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been wanting to write from the very first episode on, because the intensity and obsessiveness and dynamics of these two are custom-tailored to all I've ever wanted. I just really really want _this_ Javert to own _this_ Valjean, and to see them struggle with their feelings and their history and Valjean's trauma and Javert's obsession. No chapter estimate, but I do estimate that this will take me ~100k.
> 
> Thanks to Kainosite for all the brainstorming help! <3

Valjean did not allow himself to think of the chains that awaited him when he handed over the reins of his horse in front of the courthouse of Arras.

The palomino was out of breath, his golden coat wet with sweat. The Spanish gelding was one of the finest beasts in the entire department, or so the mayor’s admirers had often proclaimed, yet even so the horse had been driven to exhaustion by their relentless race.

But perhaps it hadn’t been enough. Perhaps even the palomino’s thundering gallop was not enough to stem the tide, to halt the merciless ticking of the clock. Perhaps he was too late, and the dreadful thing awaiting within would not come to pass after all...

At the shameful thought, the burn in his palm ached with renewed fury, driving tears to Valjean’s eyes. He had to blink them away before he announced himself to the man guarding the door.

Had he not done enough evil? Was the burn that plagued him even now not enough to teach him what must be done? He was a filthy thief, a monster who had stolen from a child—but even so, perhaps his soul might yet be saved.

But to take a willing step further into the darkness inside his heart, which had whispered all the way to Arras in his mind with the voice of the devil that he would be free at last if another were to take his place in the prison hulks...

Valjean was a monster to even contemplate such a thing. He was a man who had stolen from a child. He knew he deserved no mercy. But he was no murderer, not yet. He would not condemn an innocent to the hell that was Toulon.

When he entered the courtroom, people stared. Many recognized him, for he had built a good life for himself in Montreuil. For a few years, he had allowed himself to believe that a man could make up in such a way for past sins. And yet, what good were all the hospital beds in the world to the young boy all alone on that mountain road near Digne?

A shiver ran down Valjean’s back when he met Javert’s eyes. The Inspector sat on a bench at the front—ready, no doubt, to be called upon as witness.

Valjean swallowed, then forced himself to look away. It would all be over soon enough. Javert would have what he’d always wanted.

But an innocent man would remain free. And perhaps, at long last, the boy’s sobs that had haunted his dreams for so long would fall silent...

Valjean turned towards the judge and bowed before he took his place next to where the mayor of Arras sat, his white sash wound around his body.

Again Valjean’s gaze flickered towards Javert, who inclined his head with mocking slowness in return. A mere minute or two, and Javert would no longer be forced to address him respectfully...

Biting back a groan, Valjean cradling his aching hand. The burn still throbbed fiercely. Grasping the reins on the long ride had hurt—but was it not an agony he deserved? The pain flared with every beat of his heart now, a dull throb that filled his head. It took long moments until Valjean realized that the accused sitting on the chair near the judge was not a man his own age.

Was he truly too late then? Was the trial already over?

Something inside Valjean twisted, the burn flaring into new pain even as his heart skipped a beat with shocked relief.

His mind reeling, Valjean found himself staring at a woman. Something about her seemed strangely familiar. He'd expected a vagrant, a man his age—perhaps bearded, and dirty from his travels: the man Valjean had been, six years ago, when he'd walked from Toulon to Digne.

Instead, a young woman was sitting there—a woman in her twenties, with long, brown hair. Her face was wet with tears and her eyes red. The clothes she wore were simple, her dress visibly mended in several places—and on her face, which had been full of despair a moment ago, there bloomed now first recognition, then hate.

“You!” She spat the words at him across the room. “It’s you! Have you come to gloat then, you monster? It’s your fault that I’m here!”

Valjean flinched, unable to react when all of a sudden, recognition came flooding in. Fantine Thibault, the woman he'd been forced to fire...

“Fifty francs he gave me!” She laughed again in despair, pointing at him while the room erupted in excited whispers. “Fifty francs, when I have a young child that depends on me! Four years old, your honor; what is she to do without me? If she were older, she could work for her living—but at that age, they can’t yet care for themselves. Fifty francs, and he told me to go look for other work, when everyone knows there’s no other work to be had! I sewed shirts for nine sous a day. Even when one doesn’t eat, how is one supposed to support a child like that? And then she was sick, and the innkeepers kept sending for more money—I always meant back to pay what I borrowed. You see, I sold all my linen, all my clothes, I moved to the cheapest room beneath the roof—but nine sous a day, and the child near death, and the doctor wanting a hundred francs? I will pay it back, I swear it, but you must send for her—”

“Enough of that.” The judge’s hammer came down with a brutal finality. It rang in Valjean’s ear, even as a gendarme appeared.

“Take her away. A year of indentured servitude to the town of Montreuil—represented by Monsieur Madeleine here. I hereby place you, Fantine Thibault, into the custody of Inspector Javert, who will arrange all further proceedings.”

“But what is to become of my daughter—please,” Fantine said desperately, “I’ll work for the mayor, I’ll do whatever he asks, I’ll work for two years, five—if only my daughter will be cared for!”

Valjean didn’t realize that he’d stood until the room suddenly went quiet.

“There’s been a mistake,” he heard himself say. “I made a mistake. I’ll pay whatever her debts are—”

“It’s too late for that.” Javert spoke evenly, but even so there was a look of satisfaction in his eyes. “The contract was signed before you entered, Monsieur le Maire. For her debts, she is now a servant of the city of Montreuil—represented by myself.”

“And myself,” Valjean said, the throb of the burn increasing until it was nearly unbearable.

“Of course, Monsieur le Maire,” the judge now said impatiently, “but as the inspector rightfully pointed out, the case is closed, and there is nothing more to be done. She is in your custody now; I’m certain you’ll find a use for someone like her.”

There was barely veiled laughter in response, leaving no doubt at all to what both judge and audience assumed would come to pass. Valjean struggled to breathe as the brand throbbed.

Javert nodded to an agent of police who had stood in readiness. “Take her away.”

Again Valjean hesitated. If he were to do what he’d planned to do, he would plunge this woman into despair. As the mayor of Montreuil, perhaps he could find a way to repay her debts himself—and there was a child.

He remembered now that Fantine had talked of the child. Fantine had wept and begged, and he—he’d been so lost in fear for himself, and himself only, that he’d ignored her. What was it he’d been so afraid of back then? That to be seen harboring dishonest women under the roof of his factory would reveal his own falseness, with Javert’s suspicious eyes already constantly upon him?

The brand ached so fiercely that his eyes stung again. He struggled to breathe. What was he supposed to do? What path was he supposed to take? To save her would mean to condemn another. To save Champmathieu would mean to condemn her and her child...

She spit into his face when she was led past him, and the courtroom erupted into cries of shock.

“That’s enough!” Javert said sharply. “Shackle her for that. We’ll deal with her once we’re back.”

“No,” Valjean said. “Let her be.”

Javert gave him a derisive smile. “Monsieur le Maire, this was an insult of the honor of your office—”

“An insult of myself,” Valjean said just as sharply. “And I tell you, let her be. It was my honor that was attacked, and mine alone. I will not see her punished for it.”

Javert leaned back on the bench. “As you say...” he murmured with another smile, as if he was not surprised at all that Valjean would side with a woman who'd been forced to sign her own life away.

Javert gestured at his agent. Fantine was led out of the room, her face full of a furious despair that cut Valjean to the core. Then the judge’s hammer came down once more, the room still filled with the excited noise of the crowd that had come to watch the spectacle.

“Our next case,” the judge began. “Bring in the prisoner Champmathieu.”

His heart racing in his chest, Valjean sat down as well. He struggled to breathe. His shirt was clammy with sweat, sticking to his skin. The burn was still aching relentlessly. What was he to do?

Valjean watched quietly as the trial began to play out. The man Champmathieu was clearly confused—and why wouldn’t he be? The claims against him were clearly false. Valjean himself was the living proof of it.

Then three witnesses were lead into the room. They were chained, clad in the distinctive red of the prison hulks.

A shudder went through Valjean as he looked at them. For a moment, the sounds of the courtroom fell away. He could hear the sound of the waves, taste the dust of the quarry, smell the stink of a hundred men chained to the same planks there in the belly of the ship. At times, in his factory in Montreuil, the remembered horror of those years had been so incomprehensible that he’d been half convinced that it must have been a nightmare. Now, with Cochepaille, Chenildieu and Brevet right in front of him, it felt as if a storm had blown the salty air of Toulon straight into this place that had become his home, and it seemed as if those five years of comfort and respectability had been the dream.

Was it not unreal that a man like him should wear the mayoral sash, should command workers—should even command Javert, who had seen him in his shame, trembling and chained?

Valjean closed his eyes against the cacophony of noise inside his head. He clenched his burned hand until the pain flared, a brilliant white that cut through the agony in his mind. Even the face of Fantine fell away, and there was at long last only the cries of a young boy.

“Enough! Enough, I say!” The pain flared again as he jumped forward from his seat and slammed his hand down upon a book.

The crowd gasped in shock, then they reluctantly quieted. Breathing heavily, Valjean allowed his gaze to return to Javert, who was watching him with a small, satisfied smile.

Valjean exhaled. Let Javert have what he wanted. Even Javert’s satisfaction would not hurt as much as the agony that awaited him, should he allow this innocent man to be sentenced to hell in his place.

“I am Jean Valjean.”

He had not spoken that name in five years. After all this time, after all the shame, he had not thought that it would be a relief to say it—and yet, for a brief, blessed moment, it felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He cold hear himself speak as if from a distance as he addressed the three convicts—three men who had suffered just as he had, who still wore the chains and the red coat of their shame, and who had nevertheless agreed to condemn an innocent and drag him down into their own hell.

Instead, it would be Valjean who would be chained by their side once more, soon enough. Despite the terror that clenched around his heart even now, Valjean found that he did not truly fear that fate. To live with that lie, to live with the burden of his sin squeezing the breath out of him day and night, for all eternity... would that not have been worse?

“Here are the forty sous I stole from the child Petit-Gervais.”

There was a relief in setting the coin down on the table as well. It gleamed in the light of the many lamps that lit the room, his shame exposed for everyone to see. Nevertheless, to admit his sin, to no longer carry it as a dreadful secret within his heart, had made it easier to breathe freely.

“Will you surrender yourself to the custody of Inspector Javert?” the judge demanded while the whispers all around him rose up once more.

Valjean could hear Javert come forward, every step an echoing portent of what was to come. Valjean did not turn around. He knew, after all, what would be on Javert’s face.

Instead, Valjean gave the judge a slow nod. He could already feel the chains that would click in place soon enough; even so, there was nothing but relief in his heart. “Willingly.”

“No,” Javert said.

Shocked, Valjean found himself turning after all. Javert was watching him intently, his brows drawn together. Even the smile had disappeared from his lips.

“I don’t want him sent to the prison hulks. He’s tried to escape four times, your honor. He needs a more personal supervision. And his crimes were against the honor and integrity of Montreuil itself, against every honest citizen of our town. His punishment, I’m sure you’ll agree, should match his crime. Indentured servitude, here in Montreuil, for life.”

“Monsieur Javert,” the judge began, “I can see the sense in your words, but there is no legal precedent—I cannot just condemn the man to such a thing, much as I might want to. The law is explicit. He must sign himself over, as that young woman just did—”

“I’ll do it.” The words broke free before Valjean had even had time to think about it. “Until the end of my life. Until Inspector Javert believes that I have paid enough. Under one condition.”

“You are hardly in the position to make demands, M. Madeleine,” the judge said sternly.

“No. Let him speak.” Javert was smiling once more, although his eyes were cold when Valjean turned to face him. “What are you planning, Valjean?”

“I’ll sign myself over, just as you want. Indenture to the town—I’ll be under your command, as you know.” It was a horrible custom, or so Valjean had always thought—and yet the town had been prosperous enough, there had been work enough in his factory, that the barracks by the station-house for indentured servants had stood empty for most of his years in Montreuil.

He’d thought that he’d saved his people from such a fate—until the case of that young woman, Fantine, when he’d allowed his own guilt to close his eyes and his heart to her situation.

But perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps, even now, there was a way to spare her further suffering—or at least her child.

“Why would you do that?” Javert demanded. “If you think you’ll be treated gently here, you’re mistaken.”

“I know.” Valjean smiled sadly. “I know that I cannot expect kindness from you, Inspector. But you heard Fantine. She has a daughter. I will sign myself over to your custody if the daughter is cared for. Send a monthly allowance to the innkeepers, just as she did, and I’ll sign the contract right now.”

“That is highly irregular—” the judge began.

“Done.” Javert’s smiled widened.

Something inside Valjean’s chest clenched with terror as he looked at Javert, the fate that awaited him looking back at him from Javert’s dark eyes. He knew what was in wait: the exposition, the hundred humiliations that would follow, the unbearable shame of chains and toil not in the quarry, where he was one of many, but right here, where people had spoken his name with respect and admiration.

Valjean drew in a shuddering breath. “Thank you,” he said calmly.

It felt as if everything was happening to a different person—nevertheless, when Javert’s hand shot out, his fingers clenching around Valjean’s wrist, Valjean thought that he could feel the frightened beating of his own pulse against Javert’s thumb.

“Don’t thank me,” Javert murmured. He drew in a deep breath as he stared at Valjean, who could only helplessly watch, his hand remaining in Javert’s grasp. “I’ll make sure you’ll never, ever forget your degradation again.”

Valjean swallowed, then bent his head. “I would expect nothing else. And the child?”

“I’ll honor our arrangement. As long as you’re aware that your labor will make up for the cost to the city’s coffers.”

“That is fair,” Valjean said hollowly.

A moment later, Javert released his wrist and stepped aside. Even as he called out for the cuffs, Valjean could feel his gaze on him. It was heavier than the iron of the shackles that now closed around his wrists—heavier than the weight of his sin.

For one terrifying moment, it seemed impossible to bear the intensity of what was burning in Javert’s eyes for day after day, until the end of his life.

In the prison hulks, there had always been the thought of escape. They had caught him every time, of course—but still, Valjean had been able to dream. He’d been able to saw away at a chain day after day, a fragile lifeline that kept him connected to the blue sky that stretched beyond the despair of his prison.

This time, he would be a willing prisoner. This time, he’d made a deal. There would be no escape for him. No dreams of blue skies stretching above him. Not for as long as the fate of a young child depended on him.

Valjean shuddered when Javert grasped hold of the iron connecting his wrists.

“Come along,” Javert said, another smile playing on his lips. “Let’s see what your fine town will say now.”

Valjean followed without protest, for what other choice was there? Whatever would come to pass could be borne, as he had borne everything else. And now, when everything had fallen away but the taste of iron on his tongue and the weight of Javert’s gaze, even the burn had ceased to ache so fiercely. Perhaps, at long last, the shame that was to come would also silence the cries of the young boy in his dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

The carriage shook as they traveled back towards Montreuil. A second carriage followed behind them. Inside were two men and another woman, twice the age of the woman who’d beguiled Valjean, criminals who’d all chosen to follow the example set by the former mayor and sign themselves over into indenture rather than go to prison.

For the first time since Javert had arrived in Montreuil, the barracks next to the station-house would see use. The thought made him smile. On more than one occasion, Valjean in his guise as the mayor had lectured him about the lack of crime in Montreuil, which had followed, he’d claimed, from the fact that with enough work and food, no one was forced to such desperate measures.

A lie, of course. Javert had known. And now the entire town would know.

Despite the cuffs that secured Valjean’s wrists, Javert kept a pistol aimed at him. He’d seen the man’s strength, after all.

“Are you looking forward to our return? I know I am.” He smiled again as he stared at Valjean, taking in the way the man’s entire demeanor had changed.

Where before, Valjean had walked with his head high, showing Javert a blatant disregard, as though he were a magistrate in truth who could dismiss a police spy with the wave of a hand, now Valjean’s head was low, his shoulders bent. His eyes were on the floor of the carriage, not the window.

The carriage shook as they rolled across a rock. Javert kept his gun trained on Valjean even as he held onto the carriage with one hand.

Valjean had reached out with his bound hands as well—but something had made him flinch back as soon as he touched the carriage. Now he sat cradling his hand, his face covered by lanky strands of hair that had escaped the ribbon that tied it back.

“Show me your hand.”

Valjean’s head rose at Javert’s words, but he did not react.

Frustrated, Javert repeated the command, adjusting his grip on his pistol. “Show me your hand, I said.”

Now, reluctantly, Valjean obeyed. His hands rose—still safely shackled. He stretched them towards Javert, who impatiently grabbed hold of them. Then he gave the shackles a sharp tug.

With a gasp of surprise, Valjean was pulled from his seat, landing on his knees before Javert as the carriage continued to sway.

“You’d better learn how to obey promptly in the coming days,” Javert murmured. “You could obey once. You’ll learn it again. Now let’s see what we’ve been hiding.”

It was Valjean’s right hand he had cradled as if he’d hidden something within. A file, perhaps? A small picklock?

Slowly, Javert smoothed his thumb from Valjean’s wrist towards his palm.

“Open your hand.”

Valjean’s head bent. Even so, his fingers uncurled in Javert’s grasp, revealing not a hidden tool, but a wound. A circle of red, blistered flesh marred the lines of his palm, and when Javert’s exploring thumb came too close, he could see Valjean’s fingers trembling, his wrist jerking instinctively in his grasp.

“What’s this?” Javert tightened his grip on Valjean’s wrist, who did not resist, although his hand kept shaking when Javert’s thumb slowly circled his palm. “What have you done?”

Valjean didn’t answer. Javert gave him a moment, but when no explanation was forthcoming, he grabbed Valjean’s hair with his other hand to force his head up.

“You’ll answer when I speak to you. Do you understand?”

Valjean swallowed, nodding painfully as much as Javert’s grip on him would allow.

“Yes, sir,” he said. His eyes were gleaming, and when Javert’s thumb drew close to the wound again, he closed his eyes, a tear falling at last.

“I’ll ask again. What is this? Looks like a burn…”

“I burned myself.” Valjean’s eyes were still closed. Given the trembling of his hand in Javert’s grasp and the rawness of the skin, the burn had to be very painful.

Javert had seen burns before. It was hard not to, in the prison hulks.

“This will leave a scar. What happened?”

Shakily, Valjean met his eyes once more. “I was burning my old knapsack. The coin fell out. I picked it up.”

“Did you. And then you—what. Held onto it?” Javert laugh in disbelief. “That’s not a simple burn, Valjean. That’s as good as a brand.”

Valjean remained silent for a moment. Javert did not release his hand.

“I must have held onto it too long,” Valjean said quietly. “Sir.”

“Really,” Javert said. “And you have not bandaged it? What was your plan—did you think I would not be in Arras? That the judge might be moved to pity—or did you hope that you could plead insanity?”

He released Valjean’s hand, watching as Valjean remained kneeling on the floor of the carriage for a long moment before he returned to his seat.

“You must have thought you could fool them again. But that’s over now. You’re in my custody now. There will be no more of your games. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Valjean’s shoulders were drooping. He was cradling his hand again. Javert watched him for a long moment, until he was satisfied that—at least for now—the man was in no position to attempt an escape. Even so, Javert kept his gun trained on him for the entire ride back to Montreuil.

By the time they arrived, it was late afternoon. The sun had not yet set; the streets were still busy with workers and people returning from the market.

Javert allowed himself a small smile as the carriage began to slow down.

“Shall we see what your fine town has to say to this?”

Valjean did not respond, although Javert could see him hunch his shoulders. Javert tightened his hold on his gun, waiting for one of his agents to open the door.

“The town’s not had indentured workers for a while, isn’t that right?” Javert said. “It’s time to re-establish old customs. Of course, you’re already acquainted with the custom of exposition, aren’t you?”

Now Valjean’s head rose. He remained silent for a moment, until he seemed to remember Javert’s earlier command.

“I am,” he said quietly.

Javert felt his smile widen. “It’s customary to show off the town’s new servants. You, of course, are a special case. I want chains for you. Gerard, see to it. Prepare a post.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said. A moment later, he was gone.

With the help of two of his other officers, Javert watched Valjean leave the carriage. A crowd had gathered around them. Javert could hear their whispers— _Madeleine_ , they repeated, _the mayor_!

Triumphantly, Javert grabbed hold of the chain that connected Valjean’s wrists, then shoved him forward.

With uneasy murmurs, the crowd parted before them.

“Look at your Monsieur le Maire.” Javert spoke loud enough to make certain that his voice was carrying through the town square. “Your fine Monsieur Madeleine. Or should I say—Jean Valjean? A thief, a criminal, a convict. A liar. But all that’s over now. He has been unmasked and sentenced in Arras.”

“Monsieur le Maire...” One of the workers came forward as if she couldn’t believe Javert’s words, but when she saw the cuffs on Valjean’s wrists, she gasped and hastily stepped backwards.

Valjean flinched. As Javert watched, his gaze dropped to the floor.

“Monsieur 24601 here,” Javert said, voicing the number with deep pleasure, “was never your mayor. Nineteen years in the prison hulks in Toulon. I knew him there. A convict who’s been in the prison hulks, and he thought he could con you. Just think of that. Lifting your hat every day to a convict. Coming to his office to beg for alms from a convict. But all of that’s over now.”

The crowd’s murmuring grew louder. More and more people came, drawn in by the spectacle. Valjean lifted his head to give Javert a quick glance from wide, dark eyes, as if he were hoping that Javert might put an end to it.

Javert answered Valjean’s gaze with a wide smile. He’d make certain that this man drank his degradation down to the last dregs.

In any case, it would take a moment to prepare the post to show him off. They’d need chains. Javert wasn’t stupid. Valjean might have willingly surrendered to his servitude—but that might have been a ploy, and that woman a welcome diversion.

Still, if Valjean thought that it would be easier to escape Javert’s personal supervision than escaping the prison hulks, he’d soon find out that he’d been wrong.

This game had dragged on too long. Javert had watched Valjean make a mockery of his position for too many months. The arrest alone wouldn’t be enough to quench the fury in him.

But he’d see to it that the man got what he deserved. Valjean would learn soon enough that he couldn’t win, not ever.

“Monsieur Madeleine? Is it true—oh, dear God!” Someone else had come pushing through the throng. When the man finally made it into the small circle that had formed around Valjean, Javert saw the distinctive whiskers and loosely knotted cravat of Robert, a successful, well-connected man who had been a staunch admirer of the mayor. A man, or so Javert had heard, who had been trying to convince Valjean of accepting the mayoral sash for a long time.

Monsieur Robert was well-regarded in the town. He owned a fine house that bordered the square they stood on. And his business ventures had no connection to Valjean. Javert had looked into all of these things when he’d first arrived in the town and recognized Valjean.

No, it seemed that all of the town’s magistrates and electors had been taken in by Valjean’s ruse. Valjean had no accomplices in Montreuil. That, at least, was a relief. He’d have no friends here now. He’d find no support. Instead, he’d labor day in, day out to make up for his crimes against the town’s reputation, and all the people who’d once looked up to him would spit on him.

“Ah, Monsieur Robert. You’ll want to keep your distance,” Javert explained, still smiling. “This man’s name is Jean Valjean. He was never Monsieur Madeleine. And he’s a dangerous man.”

Robert ignored him, moving even closer. “Monsieur Madeleine?” he asked again, reaching out for Valjean’s arm.

As Javert watched impatiently, Valjean at last lifted his head. “It’s true, Robert,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll want to stay away from him from now on.” Javert strode forward, so that Robert had no choice but to release Valjean. “You’ve been taken in by him, as everyone else was. I hope you’ll all remember his monstrous strength. Remember the cart. Think of what he could do to you!”

Gasps and murmurs followed his words, the crowd making way.

“I don’t believe it,” Robert said. “It can’t be—Tell me how I can help you, Monsieur Madeleine—”

“I’m sorry, Robert.”

Pleased, Javert watched as Valjean lowered his head, his face flushed.

This was how it should be: the man’s sins out in the open at last. Javert laughed softly as he looked at Valjean, surrounded by the people who had adored him just this morning. Now, finally, they were staring with shock and revulsion.

And so it would be until then end of Valjean’s life.

“Sir? It’s ready,” Gerard reported a moment later.

Javert reached out to grab hold of Valjean’s arm, forcefully turning him around until he faced the other side of the market square. There, a small dais stood—the same platform, Javert realized with another smile, that would have seen Valjean wear the mayor’s sash for the first time, two years ago.

Now, the small handful of the town’s new indentured servants were gathered there—and someone had hastily fetched a set of shackles from the station-house, by which Valjean could be chained to a wooden post.

Valjean did not resist when Javert led him towards the platform. Even so, Javert made certain that Gerard remained nearby, keeping a gun trained on Valjean when Javert at last opened his cuffs.

“Let them see who you truly are. Go on. Take off your coat.”

Valjean looked at him for a moment. Javert could see him struggle. For all that Valjean had promised to sign himself over to service willingly, Javert knew there’d be revolt sooner or later. A man like that wouldn’t rest until he’d been shown the limits of Javert’s patience again and again.

Valjean exhaled, then lowered his eyes and stripped out of his greatcoat.

“Go on,” Javert demanded impatiently. Coat and waistcoat followed, until at last, Valjean stood before them in the marketplace in his shirtsleeves.

Javert’s smile widened. “Pull off your shirt.”

Again there was a moment of hesitation. Valjean’s eyes reluctantly rose to his face, as if Valjean was hoping he’d find mercy there.

Javert met his gaze evenly, until a flush appeared on Valjean’s cheeks and he turned his face away, even as his hands went to the hem of his shirt. Javert watched as Valjean’s fingers tightened. Again the man hesitated. Then he inhaled, and slowly did as commanded.

The crowd that had gathered around the platform erupted into surprised murmurs and gasps once more. The sight was awe-inspiring—even Javert found himself drawing in his breath in a moment of shock, when at last, after these many months of suspicion, the convict’s impressive physique was revealed at last from beneath the mayor’s clothes.

The late evening sun gleamed on Valjean’s muscles, the broad chest of a man who had spent half his life condemned to hard labor exposed to the eyes of the crowd. Valjean’s own eyes were staring at the ground.

Javert reached out again to grab his arm.

“Now look at your mayor,” he called out. He gave Valjean a hard push, who followed slowly, but obediently, and turned around.

Immediately there was a louder murmur arising, even a shocked cry or two. Valjean’s back was without doubt the back of a convict. White scars ran from his hips to his shoulders, the unmistakable proof of punishments past.

“Look at the man who thought he could fool you! A man who spent nineteen years in the prison hulks, a thief, a dangerous man—and he thought that he could govern honorable citizens?”

Javert looked out at the crowd, pleased by the shocked faces. Now Valjean’s game was truly over. None of these people would ever be fooled by him again.

“Shackle him,” he told Gerard, then stepped towards the four men and women who were huddling by the end of the platform. One of them—the one Valjean had for some reason thought to protect, no doubt enamored of the long, brown locks and pretty face—looked as if she’d spent most of the ride back to Montreuil crying.

“Please, Monsieur Javert,” she said when he took hold of her arm. “What will become of my daughter? If I don’t send money, those in-keepers will turn her out, and at her age—”

“Be silent.” Javert gritted his teeth as he pulled her towards the front of the platform. “She’ll be cared for. It’s been seen to. And I don’t want to hear of you again unless I’m asking you a question.”

To his right, he saw from the corner of his eye Gerard stepping away; when he turned his head, he found Valjean shackled to the post, still shirtless in the afternoon sun, although now his back was against the post.

It didn’t matter. Everyone had seen the evidence. They wouldn’t forget it again.

No, Javert saw when he let his eyes sweep over the crowd, even Robert, who’d been so loyal to all of the mayor’s falsely pious schemes, was staring at him with an expression of quiet shock. At last, Robert, too, turned his back on him and vanished in the crowd, making space for another to take his place and gape at Valjean.

Javert smiled.

“Fantine Thibault,” he then announced. “One year of servitude to Montreuil for her debts.”

“Fantine,” another woman in the garb of a factory worker gasped. “Oh, Fantine...”

Someone else nudged her away. Even so, Fantine hadn’t reacted. When Javert turned back to her, he found that she was still staring at him, tears in her eyes and an expression of shocked disbelief on her face.

“Is it true, Monsieur Javert?” she asked. “My Cosette—she’ll be cared for?”

Javert clenched his teeth. “I’m not in the habit of lying,” he forced out. “Now shut your mouth. Next!”

He impatiently waved the taller of the two men over. One of his agents came forward. “Caillot, sir. Five years of servitude for theft.”

Javert repeated the information, loud enough that it could be heard across the square, although, to his deep satisfaction, most eyes were still resting on Valjean.

Javert paused for a moment before calling over the second man, letting his own eyes linger on where Valjean stood, half-naked and chained, exposed in all his shame to the eyes of the people who had once looked up to him. Even now, Javert could see the insouciance on his face when Javert had first entered his office. To think that Valjean had truly believed that he’d won his game! He must have laughed, that first night when Javert had arrived, thinking himself perfectly safe.

But things had changed. Valjean would soon learn that.

For a moment, their eyes met again, Valjean’s wide and panicked, reminding Javert of a trapped animal. Javert gave Valjean a slow, deliberate smile, watching the way Valjean’s chest rapidly rose and fell, until at last, cowed, Valjean averted his eyes once more.

He’d learn. No matter what it would take, this was a lesson Javert would make sure to teach him.


	3. Chapter 3

This was not the first time Valjean had found himself tied to a pole, exposed to the eyes of a crowd who had gathered to gape at him and whisper in hushed voices about the crimes he had committed. It was true that Javert had forced him to strip down to his trousers, baring the lashmarks that marred his back—yet even so, there had been a shame worse than this, back when they’d first chained him and forced him to march to Toulon.

Of course, back then, it hadn’t been the eyes of men who knew him that lingered on his shamed body.

He didn’t dare to lift his eyes to look out at the crowd. It had been bad enough to be forced to face Robert: to tell Robert to his face that it was all true, that Robert had put his trust into a liar and a thief, that Robert had endangered his own good name by campaigning to appoint a convict as their mayor.

If only he’d been strong enough back then to say no to Robert. Valjean hadn’t wanted the honor—despite what Javert might think, he’d never wanted it. But when Robert had kept trying to convince him, it had eventually started to make a certain sense. He’d seen the good that could be done in such a position by a man who truly cared about the weakest and poorest citizens of this town.

Of course, it had been all for nothing. There would be another mayor soon enough, and nothing of what Valjean had hoped to achieve would last. Worse—he would remain here, laboring beneath Javert’s watchful eye, with former acquaintances pointing at him and whispering.

But it could be borne. Even this could be borne.

The burn still ached relentlessly, reminding him of the fact that Javert was not entirely wrong. Valjean had robbed a child. And worse: he’d forced a woman to sell herself into this misery, to labor by his side as if she were not much better than a convict, parted from her daughter.

He had caused this—he, with his selfishness and fear. If only he’d shown compassion instead of thinking that he needed to set an example...

Something touched the shackles that chained Valjean to the pole. When he started and turned his head, he found himself face to face with Javert once more, who’d doubtlessly come to make certain that the shackles would hold.

The corners of Javert’s mouth rose as he stared at him. Valjean suddenly found that his mouth was dry. Javert stood so close that he could feel the brush of Javert’s greatcoat against his bare chest.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Javert murmured, sounding pleased. “The next time, it would be for life. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Valjean struggled to draw in a breath. “Yes, sir,” he finally managed in reply, lowering his eyes.

Javert made an amused sound. “That’s a long time to make sure that you’ll learn your lesson.”

Valjean’s hair fell into his face, damp with sweat and dirty with the dust of the road. He was grateful for the way it shielded him from Javert’s eyes—although he did not doubt that in time, Javert would take that flimsy protection away as well.

With another chuckle, Javert went away.

Valjean swallowed. They had chained his wrists behind the pole. He knew that there was no way he could make an escape—and moreover, he’d surrendered himself willingly to this punishment. The welfare of a child depended on him now; he could not have fled, even if the cuffs had opened by some miracle.

Even so, he could not help the old reflexes that made him test the strength of the cuffs out of sheer instinct, the way a dog will test the length of its leash.

The cuffs did not yield, and with a tremulous breath, Valjean surrendered to his fate, his face burning as he imagined the men and women who had come to stare at him. Was the woman who had cooked for him in the crowd? Was the man there who had sold him the Spanish palomino? Was Madame Victurnien watching; were his workers gathering as the news spread?

His face continued to heat as he imagined the way his factory would empty once the first rumors were carried there. Had they come already? Had all the men and women who had once trusted him to provide for them come to stare and point at him, knowing that he had lied to them all—knowing that he had betrayed them?

It took an hour until Javert finally returned to unchain him. By that time, Valjean was exhausted. His head hung so low that all he could see beyond the lanky strands that shielded his face from view was the stone beneath his feet. He had not looked up even when he had heard familiar voices—two of the factory workers, who had exclaimed in shock and disbelief, and then the voice of Madame Victurnien, coldly condemning him.

“That’s enough,” Javert said sharply. “Gilbert, take them to the barracks.”

“And the mayor? Pardon, sir—Jean Valjean?”

Javert was silent for a moment. When Valjean raised his eyes at last, he saw that Javert stood in front of him once more, silently studying him.

A corner of Javert’s mouth rose. “I’ll take care of that myself.”

The crowd had not entirely dispersed, Valjean saw when Javert at last opened the shackles that had held his wrists tied behind the pole. He was allowed enough time to hastily pull on his shirt and coat once more, Javert keeping a firm hold on his gun all the while. Then Javert closed the handcuffs around his wrists again, and Valjean found himself led through the murmuring crowd towards the station-house.

The house was situated in one of the streets that ran from the square towards the ramparts that surrounded the town. Next to the house, a low building with dirty curtains stood. The sun had begun to set, and as Javert marched him closer, he could see a light spring up behind the narrow, grimy windows.

Valjean had been inside that building only once or twice; there had been no need for men or women to sell themselves to the town while his factory offered work to anyone willing to take it. Within, Valjean knew he would find two rooms with narrow beds, straw mattresses on planks of wood, a small kitchen.

And yet it was not these barracks Javert led him towards.

Javert nudged him towards the station-house with his cudgel. As the chief of police, Javert had a right to the apartment that was situated atop the house, facing towards the back. Beneath were the rooms where Javert had presided in the months since he had come to Montreuil, giving orders to his agents, writing reports on arrests, and biding his time until at last Valjean gave himself away.

Valjean drew in a deep breath when Javert led him inside. The station-house was empty—Javert’s agents had been busy, of course, witnessing his shame in the market square, and would now oversee the other men and women settling into the barracks.

Perhaps he should have been afraid of the reason why Javert had led him here all alone—yet what else could happen now? The worst had already come to pass. And he was used to hard labor, his skin used to whips and chains. If Javert wanted to gloat at his shame now, let him; even that could be borne.

“Hurry up.” Javert’s cudgel nudged his side once more.

Javert handled the stick almost gently—he had not beaten him, not once so far. Was that because Javert preferred the pleasure of making him flinch with his words, or was he saving that experience to savor it later?

Javert led him into the small room that preceded the two cells constituting the jail of Montreuil-sur-Mer. The cells were empty, as was the room.

For a moment, Valjean wondered whether he was to spend the night in the cells. He would not mind—in truth, he would have preferred a night alone, although he had no doubt that by the time morning arrived, Javert’s agents would return to gawk at him.

“Give me your hand.”

At the command, Valjean approached hesitantly and held out his hands. Would Javert truly unchain him?

Instead of reaching for a key, Javert grabbed hold of his burned hand.

Again Javert’s thumb slid from his wrist towards his palm. Valjean watched his own fingers tremble. Then, with effort, he relaxed them, revealing the burn to Javert’s gaze once more.

Javert eyed his hand for a moment, then turned away, leaving Valjean standing uncertainly by the single desk that graced the small room. When he returned, he was carrying a bowl and a pitcher of water. Without saying a word, he grabbed Valjean’s hand again. A moment later, he dipped a cloth into the water, then began to wash Valjean’s hand.

Javert was careful, his touch light. Even so, a small groan of pain escaped Valjean before he pressed his lips together, concentrating on keeping his hand open in Javert’s grasp. During the preceding hour of humiliation, he’d almost forgotten about the wound; the dull, ever-present pain had been banished to the background of his mind as he stood before the crowd of onlookers, sick to his stomach with shame.

Now that he was alone with Javert once more, nothing left but the fear of what was to come, the throb in his hand sent pulses of agony through his entire body every time Javert touched the wound.

“Yes, that’s going to leave a mark.” Javert laughed softly. “Always thought it was a shame convicts like you missed out on your brands. But this’ll do just as well, won’t it? You won’t fool anyone in the future. Not with this on your skin.”

Javert was wrong—surely it could be explained away, Valjean thought. Anyway, it would be near invisible in his palm. And he could wear gloves.

“Men like you always end up with their crimes branded right on their skin.”

Javert exhaled again in amusement when Valjean finally met his eyes. For a good, long moment, Javert stared at him, so that Valjean began to fear that he’d given something of his thoughts away.

But then, it was too early to make plans. He’d made a deal—a deal he had to keep, for Fantine’s sake. Once a year had passed, things would be different. He’d know just where and how to escape Javert’s attention. And Javert in time might finally believe that Valjean was safely subdued. There’d be a chance to run; there always was.

Until then, he’d be Javert’s, and he’d bear his gloating the way he’d borne it before.

“No more lectures about the nature of wicked men now?” Javert reached into a drawer, still holding Valjean’s gaze. “That’s right. Silence suits you better.”

Another groan escaped Valjean’s throat when Javert began to smooth a salve all over the burn with surprising gentleness. Even the light touch was agony, although a few moments later, Valjean exhaled in relief when the pain dulled somewhat.

“You planned that well, didn’t you?” With an annoyed sound, Javert began to wind a clean strip of linen around his hand, still more careful with the wound than Valjean had expected. “You won’t be holding a shovel for a week now. Well, a task will be found for you. I’ve no doubt that you’ll be good for _something_.”

Valjean swallowed against the bitterness on his tongue when Javert released his hand. “Anything you say, sir.” Carefully, he kept his gaze lowered, staring at the buttons of Javert’s coat.

Javert chuckled again. “A welcome change from our last conversation, isn’t it, _Monsieur le Maire_?”

Despite his words, he then reached out and unlocked the cuffs. Relieved, Valjean took a step backwards, and then another, eager to put some distance between them. His hand was still throbbing lightly, although the pain had dulled. Javert, meanwhile, had turned to put the salve and bandages away, although he had kept his gun close.

Valjean stared at the bandage of clean linen, which Javert had carefully tied in place. He hadn’t expected that kindness—although he doubted that he’d receive more kindnesses from Javert’s hands in the coming year.

Javert was watching him once more, he realized a moment later when he looked up. There was a small smile on Javert’s face as he leaned against the desk.

“Strip.”

Valjean’s head came up sharply, but Javert didn’t repeat the command. Instead, he kept watching, the cudgel resting lightly in his hand.

Valjean exhaled. Then he began to undress.

“Not so talkative now, are you?”

Javert chuckled to himself as Valjean pulled off his shirt. Valjean kept his eyes on the floor.

“Go on. You know how this works.” Valjean didn’t even have to look at Javert to know that he was still smiling. Valjean could hear the satisfaction in his voices. “I know how this works, too. I know the things someone like you hides on his body. Better pray I don’t find anything on you tonight…”

Valjean, who’d already reached out for the buttons of his trousers in silent surrender, froze for a moment as his heart contracted painfully. He could feel his pulse in his throat, hard and panicked, when he forced himself to continue.

Javert was right. He knew what was to come. None of this was new to him.

And yet, to have it happen here, now—in this town where his name had made people smile, where he had been welcome wherever he went, where he had done his best to cure so many ills...

“Hurry up, convict,” Javert said a moment later, almost genially. 

Valjean shuddered at the reminder of how much Javert had to be enjoying this. He thought of their many encounters in Montreuil, of Javert’s searching questions, of the times he had sent Javert away with a polite smile. Had he ever made use of his power over Javert? Had he humiliated a man who’d had him in his own power for so many years?

Valjean knew that there was a heavy guilt weighing on his shoulders, but he wasn’t guilty of that sin. He didn’t think so. Not more so than could be expected, at least—not more than he’d had to, when faced with a chief of police like Javert.

Valjean remained silent as he pushed down his trousers and stepped out of them.

Javert exhaled, then pushed himself off the desk. He grabbed hold of Valjean’s face, forcing Valjean to meet his eyes as Javert’s fingers clenched around his chin.

“Open your mouth.”

Valjean felt his face heat as he reluctantly complied. A moment later, Javert’s fingers were in his mouth, searching him roughly and thoroughly.

The sound of his own breathing sounded unnaturally loud in Valjean’s ears. He fixed his eyes on a point above Javert’s head as he forced himself to hold still while Javert’s fingers slid along his teeth, searching beneath his tongue, exploring all the hidden places where one might hold a small file.

Then Javert released him, only to continue his search with the same efficiency. Javert’s hands slid all over Valjean’s body, exploring his armpits, his navel, lifting his soft genitals, even drawing back the foreskin with careful fingers as Valjean listened to the thunder of his heart beating against his ribcage, unable to move even if he’d wanted to.

Was it really only this morning that he’d woken and risen as the mayor? Was it only a handful of hours ago that he’d washed and dressed in the solitude of his own house, knowing his doors safely locked against any intruder, owner of a sanctuary he’d built with his own hands?

A moment later, Javert’s hands finally released him.

“Hands against the wall,” Javert commanded. “And hold still, or you’ll regret it.”

Valjean complied. A long moment passed during which he concentrated on the racing of his heart. He heard the sound of water. Then there was the sound of Javert stepping closer.

“Hold yourself open.”

Valjean froze, his heart shuddering in his breast as his entire body seemed to freeze, shame curling in his stomach until he could taste the bitterness on his tongue.

He forced himself to draw in a slow breath. Then he reached back and grasped hold of his buttocks, squeezing his eyes closed as he spread himself open for Javert.

Every beat of Valjean’s heart was as loud as a drum. His head leaned against the unyielding wall as he waited, breathing shallowly.

And then Javert’s fingers slid along his crease, a short, cursory search before they found his hole and slid inside.

Valjean panted against the wall at the stretch. Even wet with soap, the sudden violation made his eyes sting. Years had passed since he’d last been forced to undergo such humiliation—but now, with Javert’s fingers invading him, it felt as if no time at all had passed, as if he’d never left the prison hulks, never shed the heavy chains.

Javert made a thoughtful sound. Valjean shuddered, instinctively contracting around his fingers when he felt Javert’s warm breath against his bare shoulder.

“Good,” Javert said a moment later, pulling out of him.

Valjean’s heart kept racing as he stared at the wall, listening to the sound of Javert washing his hands.

“By all rights you should sleep on wooden planks, and in heavy chains.” Javert chuckled softly. “No doubt you think that the barracks are preferable to the hulks, and you wouldn’t be wrong. But you forget that I’m used to men like you. I’ve watched men like you all my life. And if you think that you can trick me, you’ll soon learn different.”

Valjean swallowed thickly, his mouth still dry. “Yes, sir.”

A moment later, something soft was thrown at him. “Hurry up. Dress.”

When Valjean turned around, his shirt and his trousers were resting at his naked feet. Hurriedly, he slipped them back on while Javert looked through his coat before finally setting it away. Then Javert took hold of his cravat, thoughtfully winding the simple, white cotton around his hand as he looked Valjean up and down. One corner of his mouth turned up.

“No need of a cravat from now on, I think. Not for a man like you. There’s nothing respectable about you.”

Silently, Valjean watched as the cravat was set aside as well. A moment later, Javert threw his stockings and boots at him.

“That’ll suffice for today. Hold out your hands.”

The cuffs clicked in place around his wrists once more. Then he was led upstairs, into the apartment at the back of the building where Javert resided.

Uncertainly, Valjean looked around. He’d been here before, once—before the arrival of Javert. It had been the mayor’s duty to ensure that the town’s new chief of police would have a suitable space to live. The apartment had not changed much since Javert had arrived. The shelves near the window were filled with books. A desk was covered in papers. There was a map framed on a wall that showed the department’s roads.

What had Javert brought him here for? Earlier, Valjean had assumed that Javert would make him spend the night in one of the cells, too distrustful to allow him the company of other men in the barracks. Instead, Javert had brought him into his rooms. Why?

Valjean looked up sharply when Javert suddenly stepped closer and grabbed hold of the chain that connected his wrists.

“Tonight, you’re staying where I can keep an eye on you,” Javert murmured.

Through the window behind him, Valjean could see the sky lit in hues of orange and red as the sun began to set. The light glinted on Javert’s cheeks, showing the shadow of stubble that had grown since he’d shaved in the morning, turning his skin a warm shade of russet. Even now, his eyes remained unreadable as he stared at Valjean, who watched him in turn, too shaken to avert his eyes.

“Yes, you understand that, don’t you?” Javert laughed softly, keeping a firm grip on the chain. “This isn’t the life you used to have. And this isn’t Toulon either. I’m the one in charge here. In charge of _you_. You better learn it quick.”

Then Javert released the cuffs. “Now take my coat. Hang it by the door. Be quick about it,” he snapped, so that Valjean flinched back in sudden shock before he realized what it was Javert wanted from him.

Hesitantly, he stepped behind Javert. A moment later, he found himself carrying Javert’s coat towards the door, where he hung it. When he turned back around to face Javert, he found him watching, his face still as unreadable despite the smile on his lips.

Behind Javert, a door stood halfway open.

Valjean’s stomach twisted when he remembered what was to be found behind it. A bedchamber. A sturdy bed he himself had paid for.

Javert exhaled in amusement. Valjean couldn’t say whether it was the pleasure of seeing him fulfill such a mundane task, or because Javert knew where his eyes had strayed.

Then Javert nodded towards the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Javert’s bedroom was generously sized. The apartment above the station-house itself was much larger and in a much better state of repair than the rooms he was accustomed to.

Montreuil-sur-Mer was a prospering town, or so it had been explained to him upon his arrival. The mayor had seen to it that everyone willing had work, that the streets were in good repair, that the children received schooling, and that the amount of hospital beds had more than doubled.

Now Javert smiled upon entering the bedchamber, which might even have been furnished out of the coffers of the man now trailing behind him.

Javert took a woolen blanket, then dropped it on the floor at the foot of his bed. “I’m keeping an eye on you tonight.”

Valjean’s head rose sharply. His hair was disheveled, his eyes wide and dark. There was still something of the panicked animal in him, and the sight made something heavy and satisfied spread within Javert.

Then a frown appeared between Valjean’s brows. Slowly, he looked from Javert to the blanket and back. He hesitated for a moment, visibly struggling, and Javert found himself taking a step forward in curiosity.

“You want me to sleep there tonight?” Valjean sounded strangely uncertain. “On... on the floor? Sir.”

“What, you think you deserve better?”

Javert moved even closer, carefully observing as Valjean’s eyes widened further. Valjean’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. Dressed in nothing but his shirt and his trousers, he looked strangely vulnerable, despite the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his arms.

Valjean was afraid of him.

The observation should have brought Javert more pleasure. Instead, something about it felt jarring.

Surely it was only natural that Valjean should feel fear. He was finally back in Javert’s power, who could have him beaten for an insolent word. Still. This wasn’t the wary, sullen look of the prisoner who’d been flogged into reluctant submission. There was something bright and attentive in Valjean’s eyes. Something desperate, even now.

“You’ll sleep wherever I tell you to. On the floor, in the barracks—in a cell if you don’t behave. Understood?”

“Yes.” Again Valjean looked at him, as if he were expecting to be beaten any moment.

Javert huffed a sound of amusement. He didn’t doubt that it would come to that sooner rather than later. Now that Valjean had tasted freedom and gained power over good people, surely it would take the bite of the whip to drive the insolence out of him.

But not today. It had been a long, exhausting day, despite Javert’s triumph. And tomorrow would bring more work, now that the town was without a mayor, and Javert would have to go through Valjean’s possessions to see if he could find proof of further crimes.

Javert stepped closer. Valjean shuddered like a spooked horse, his wide eyes still on Javert, but he didn’t try to retreat.

“Hands,” Javert said.

Again a heartbeat of hesitation. Then Valjean held out his hands, and Javert used his key to unlock one cuff.

“On your knees.”

Valjean shivered. Javert almost thought he might disobey—but after a moment, Valjean slowly slid to his knees, his head tilted upward to watch him warily.

Something twisted inside Javert again, a heat rising up, filling all of his limbs with a sudden urgency. There was a satisfaction in seeing Valjean obey—and then, why shouldn’t there be? Valjean was a convict, a criminal. Wasn’t his natural place on his knees before authority? And wasn’t it Javert’s duty to ensure that this man learned to show authority the proper respect?

For a moment, Javert allowed himself to linger on the pleasing sight. Finally, everything was as it should be: Valjean his knees, his head bowed.

Javert licked his lips as he stared down at Valjean. There was something as potent as brandy to the sight of the man’s degradation. Even now, if Javert wanted, he could reach out and bury his hand in Valjean’s hair, tug hard and force those eyes to look up at him. He could beat him for the many months of insolence he’d been forced to bear. He could have him in chains day and night, parade him through town every morning, work him until he could barely stand and whip him when he failed—and even then it wouldn’t be enough to quench the fire that sprung up inside him whenever Valjean’s eyes dared to meet his.

And there was more Javert could do. The mere thought left him lightheaded with the awareness of his own position and the privileges it brought. He could have Valjean here in his home every night, to serve him as was custom. He could watch as Valjean took his coat, as Valjean cleaned his boots, as Valjean ladled his soup. As the chief of police of Montreuil, he had a right to the service of any of the town’s servants.

And not only that.

Javert hadn’t failed to hear the way his agents had softly snickered behind his back at the sight of Fantine. No doubt half the town had been certain that he’d choose the young woman to serve his meal, clean his apartment, and warm his bed tonight. Any other man in his position would have chosen her.

Javert wasn’t a fool; he could see that she was beautiful. Although he wasn’t swayed by the sight of a pretty face, unlike many of the men he’d worked with, the thought made a certain sense—in the same way that the fine horse, the apartment and the clean, warm clothes he wore made sense, for all these things were a mark of the position he now held.

Fantine Thibault was beautiful enough that any other chief of police would have chosen her to remain in his rooms tonight. Still, Fantine was harmless. He’d seen a hundred women like her. She might cry and beg week after week, used to getting her way thanks to her pretty face, but that was the most she’d do.

Jean Valjean, on the other hand—a convict, a recidivist, a man who’d spent nineteen long years in the prison hulks only to immediately commit another crime once he was free...

Javert drew in a deep breath of pleasure as he stared down at Valjean at his feet.

No, it was Jean Valjean he needed to keep an eye on. Jean Valjean who needed to be taught obedience.

And Javert would teach him that lesson—any way it took.

The image that sprung to mind with startling rapidity and clearness was not entirely distasteful either. Javert had seen these men in the prison hulks. He knew well enough what they got up to with each other.

And so, it seemed, did Jean Valjean, whose skittishness now began to make a certain kind of sense.

For a moment, Javert allowed himself the thought of his hand buried in Valjean’s hair, his prick buried in Valjean’s mouth. Valjean would be obedient then—Javert would make certain of that.

The image fanned the heat within him, and he realized belatedly that the thought had been enough to make him harden.

The fantasy left him breathless: a subdued Valjean who’d press his mouth to his prick, kissing him through his trousers before obediently undressing him, then taking him into his mouth. It was a sensation he’d known only once, when he’d been new to his job in the prison hulks. Eager to claim his place among the guards and their companionship, he’d accepted their invitation to a cheap inn that also served as a whorehouse.

Twice he’d accompanied his new friends before he’d grown too disgusted by their drunkenness, their slovenly dress, the degradation all around him—all the filth of the background he wanted to wash off.

He hadn’t been back. Not even when ten years later, he’d been adjutant-guard and could have afforded a woman in a clean dress who didn’t smell like brandy and the sweat of ten guards. There’d been no need for it that he could see. He’d had his eyes on other things. Better things.

And now, here he was. Javert, chief of police of Montreuil-sur-Mer. And if he forced Jean Valjean to suck his cock, it wouldn’t be at all like the desperate things convicts did. In this town, in this station-house, in this apartment, it was Javert who embodied Authority—and there was, after all, nothing more natural than that a convict should kneel before it.

Before him, he now saw that Valjean had raised his face. Had he perhaps caught a glimpse of what went through Javert’s head? Had he caught sight of his arousal?

Javert held his gaze for a long moment, for no other reason than that he could, savoring the way all the months of impertinent arrogance had given way to the core of truth that was at the heart of every man like Jean Valjean: fear.

Javert moistened his lips, cherishing the moment for another heartbeat before he turned around.

The thought of closing his hand around Valjean’s neck and shoving Valjean’s face into his own degradation was tempting—but it had been a long day. Tomorrow would bring even more work.

And whether he wanted Valjean to suck his cock or not didn’t matter one bit. What mattered was that he, Javert, was the chief of police of Montreuil, and that he could, whenever he pleased. Let Valjean contemplate that new truth tonight.

***

When Javert woke in the morning he found to his great satisfaction Jean Valjean still curled up at the foot of his bed, handcuffed to a wooden leg. Valjean was awake, clad only in his shirt and trousers, his hair disheveled.

That Javert would have to deal with as well—but perhaps not today. There was a lot of work to be done. And this wasn’t a task Javert was willing to delegate.

When he drew back the curtain from the window, sunlight fell in. It fell onto Jean Valjean, too, who raised his eyes warily to Javert. Again Javert felt satisfaction stirring deep inside his heart, filling his body with a deep, warm pleasure at the thought of what lay ahead today.

His body had stirred, too—he was still half-hard from a dream he couldn’t quite remember, the way it often happened in the morning. His fingers had closed around a wrist, hard enough to leave bruises, and the familiar, salty breeze of the ocean had filled his nose.

Had Valjean’s presence woken old memories of his work in Toulon? It was possible, Javert decided. In any case, he had too much to do today to waste further time.

Javert drew off his nightshirt, then began to wash. Behind him, he could hear the soft clinking of chains, as though Valjean was trying to make as little sound as possible as he shifted into a sitting position. Had he caught a glimpse of Javert’s arousal?

Javert gave his mirror a humorless smile, then began to shave, as meticulous and careful with this task as if he were alone, ignoring the reflection of Jean Valjean in his mirror. Once Javert had finished dressing, he unchained Valjean and allowed him to hastily wash and dress as well. Valjean remained uncommonly silent while Javert enjoyed his breakfast, his gun demonstratively next to him. Then he led Valjean outside, allowing him to join the other men and women in the barracks next door.

Gilbert was already in place, watching with an impatient look as the new arrivals finished their own breakfast of bread and cheese. Javert gave Valjean a nudge with his cudgel, pointing at the remaining hunk of bread and a dry rind of cheese.

“Not what you’re used, is it?”

Gilbert gave an appreciative chuckle at his words, and Javert found himself smiling as he watched Valjean quietly eat his breakfast. The woman next to him had turned aside, while the others were watching Valjean with open curiosity.

“What happened to his hand, sir?” Gilbert then said. “He giving you any trouble?”

“If he had, rest assured that he wouldn’t be sitting here.” Unimpressed, Javert held Gilbert’s gaze until the man’s smirk died away.

“Pardon, sir, I didn’t mean—”

“He burned himself. Accidentally, or so he claims.” Javert let his gaze roam along the table, watching one after the other avert their eyes, until it finally came to rest on Valjean once more. “Isn’t that so, Valjean?”

Valjean hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yes, sir.”

“By all rights we should have you cutting rocks.” Javert paused for a moment. “But I’ll have you earn your keep, don’t worry. You’re coming with me today. Gilbert?”

“There’s work to be done on the street past the northern ramparts for the others,” Gilbert said.

Javert nodded. “Good.” Then he gave Valjean a sharp nod, who hastily stood, the bread still in his hand.

Valjean was wearing the shirt and the coat he’d worn when he’d traveled to Arras, but Javert had kept his cravat. There was something pleasing to the sight of Valjean walking through the streets of Montreuil with his throat bared and his hands in iron. Still, sooner or later, he’d need new clothes. Javert had little interest in spending more money than absolutely necessary on this man. Fortunately, today’s task offered a solution to that problem, together with a mountain of additional work Javert hadn’t anticipated.

Several hours later, Javert had the beginnings of an inventory of M. Madeleine’s possessions, written in Valjean’s own hand, and at least a rudimentary overview over the papers and ledgers that filled the former mayor’s office. So far, the factory’s dealings seemed in order; he’d gone through Valjean’s private correspondence with a great deal of pleasure while Valjean watched, tight-lipped and pale, and yet had found nothing but donations to the church and letters begging for money. It had been a great disappointment to Javert, who’d hoped to see Valjean writhe as Javert read out letter after letter detailing his correspondence with other convicts.

Still, Javert had his triumph in other ways—for when he entered Valjean’s bedroom, Valjean trailing hesitantly behind, Javert’s gaze was immediately captured by two impressive candlesticks of silver.

“What have we here?” Javert murmured.

He took a step closer to examine the candlesticks. When he reached out to take hold of one, he heard behind him a muffled sound. On turning around, he found Valjean frozen in an expression of dismay, his lips parted and his eyes dark and desperate. He’d raised his hands, as if he’d been about to reach out in despair to plead with Javert, but then had thought better of such a thing.

Javert’s lips rose again at the sight. There was no doubt: these had to be the candlesticks assumed to be stolen from the Bishop of Digne five years ago. Why else would Valjean show such distress?

“Something the matter, Valjean?” Javert raised a brow, still smiling as he watched Valjean.

After a moment, Valjean exhaled. “What will you do with them?”

“You know very what will happen to them. They are stolen—stolen by you, in Digne. They’re evidence.”

Valjean didn’t move, his eyes fixed on Javert. “They were gifts.”

“A likely tale.”

“You will not sell them then?”

“What do you care?” Javert laughed. “In the eyes of society, you’re dead. They were never yours in the first place, in any case.”

Valjean drew in a trembling breath, his eyes still on the silver. “I paid for them. I am paying for them still.”

“You think I’m going to believe your nonsense? They’ll remain in my care until all questions are resolved.”

Holding on to the candlesticks, Javert moved closer. Valjean didn’t back away. Instead, he met Javert’s eyes evenly, although new lines had formed around his mouth, his eyes dark with despair.

“And if your inquiries shows that they were indeed a gift given to me?”

“Then these will be sold with all the rest,” Javert said with deep pleasure, taking note of the way Valjean shuddered at his words.

Again Valjean’s hands jerked, as if he’d tried to instinctively reach out before the iron around his wrists reminded him of his position.

“Please,” he said hoarsely. “Inspector Javert—I beg you—”

“Ah. That suits you better.” Javert laughed. “But it’s too late for that. There’s nothing you can do or offer—”

Without another word, Valjean fell to his knees. “Don’t sell them. Please. If you must, give them to Sister Simplice—”

“Do you think you can bargain with me?” Even now, when outrage rose up within Javert at the thought that Jean Valjean still thought he was in any position to negotiate, something about the sight of Valjean on his knees before him filled with a deep, shocked delight. “Do you think you are in any position to make deals? You have _nothing_ you can give away. Nothing. You’re mine already. I make all decisions for you. Is that understood?”

Valjean’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. When Javert took half a step closer, burying his fingers in Valjean’s hair to grip his head tightly, he could feel the heat of Valjean’s gasped exhalation even through the cloth of his trousers.

Again Valjean’s hands rose. Was he pleading—or was he reaching for the buttons of Javert’s trousers? Javert couldn’t say. But even now, Javert could fill his body stirring once more, awakened by the parted, gasping mouth before him and the despair in Valjean’s eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

For a moment, a resolution appeared to flash in Javert’s eyes. Javert’s arousal was impossible to miss, and while Valjean had kept himself apart in the prison hulks as much as was possible, he knew very well what one man might use another for. In Toulon Valjean had been too strong and too feared for any of the other wretches chained beside him to try and make use of him. But here, now, in Javert’s power—after he’d surrendered himself willingly to Javert in exchange for Fantine’s child...

The sight of the dark wool stretching over Javert’s swollen prick made something inside Valjean tighten until he felt unable to catch a breath, his heart hammering in his chest. Even so, he knew he would do it. He had no choice, in any case. Javert could take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

It wasn’t about the worth of silver; it had never been. But the candlesticks were Valjean’s last connection to that thread of goodness he’d thought he’d held in his grasp, on that mountain road near Digne when he’d wept for the first time in many years. He’d come to believe in the following years that he’d found his way back to the path towards Heaven—only for that belief to slip out of his hand together with that fragile thread.

The burn in his palm ached, reminding him of how far he’d fallen. Should he now lose the Bishop’s gift, too? If Javert took the one thing from him that still remained of the man who’d consigned Valjean’s soul to goodness; if Valjean lost even that fragile thread to cling to...

He knew the darkness that awaited on the other side of that hard path. He didn’t want to walk in it again. And if he had to surrender his body to Javert, if that was the sacrifice that was asked of him, then he would follow, obedient like Abraham on the mountain.

Javert’s hand came forward to grab a fistful of his hair. Valjean could not suppress a flinch as his body shuddered with the old, instinctive terror he’d never been able to shake, even in these years of safety and comfort.

For a heartbeat, they stared at each other, Valjean listening to the panicked thudding of his heart as Javert’s lips parted. There was no smile on his face this time. Valjean could not read the look in his eyes.

A moment later, he found himself pushed back with such force that he ended up sprawled on the floor.

“I told you,” Javert said. “You’ve nothing to bargain with. You’re mine already. As are those candlesticks—at least until we can solve the question of ownership.”

The fall hadn’t hurt, not truly. Not when Valjean had tasted the whip and the cudgel and even the fists of the guards until his body was a tapestry of their violence. Even so, as he rested on the ground in front of Javert, he felt bruised, something inside him raw and aching at the sight of the candlesticks in Javert’s hands.

It was true that he had stolen from a child and condemned Fantine to misery—but was it not also true that he had tried his best to be good? How many hours had he spent in prayer, his head bent before the candlesticks, trying desperately to find a way to escape that dark past that seemed to forever grasp at him?

“Now get back to work.” Javert’s lips twisted into another smile. “Let’s see what you’ve got hidden in that wardrobe over there.”

***

In the end, Javert had left with an air of dissatisfaction. Perhaps he had assumed that Valjean had hidden a pile of stolen treasure in his bedchamber; instead, he had come away from it with an armful of old shirts and trousers he had unceremoniously shoved at Valjean. When they returned to Valjean’s former study, Javert paused in front of his desk. Javert had gone through all the letters earlier while Valjean had been forced to quietly watch and take notes for Javert. Now, Javert reached out for the inkstand he’d already examined earlier, as though he’d expected to find a hidden compartment.

It had been a present from Robert, back when Madeleine had first opened his factory in the new building. The gift had startled a smile out of him—perhaps the first real smile he’d ever given Robert, who’d watched his ascent in the town like the other bourgeois gentlemen, but who’d never once engaged with the rumors other men, jealous of his success, had tried to spread.

It had been Robert, too, who’d encouraged him to accept the position of mayor, and Robert who’d applauded the loudest after Valjean had all but fled from his own acceptance speech, when Robert himself could have held the position Valjean had never wanted.

Valjean watched silently as Javert’s fingers rand idly over the gleaming metal, tracing the body of the horse as if he were trying to coax forth the evil within. But there was no secret compartment, no terrible secrets. There was one thing only at the heart of the little figurine, and that was the seed of the first friendship Valjean had found in more than fifty years.

“A worthless little trinket,” he muttered, then gave Valjean a sharp look, as if he knew that there was a cry trapped in Valjean’s throat even now. “You added it to the inventory?”

Valjean swallowed, watching Javert’s thumb swipe along the horse’s elegant flank. “Yes, sir.”

This time, there wasn’t even the smallest hint of respect in his voice, but all it achieved was to bring another terrible smile to Javert’s face.

“I think I’d better hold on to this then.” Javert caught his eyes as he leaned back in Valjean’s former chair. “A little memento, if you will. It’ll look good on my desk.”

“A trophy,” Valjean said bitterly. “That’s what you mean.”

Everything inside him was tight and aching, the way he’d feel the day after a beating—only it wasn’t his skin that was bruised this time. Something inside him was raw and sore, the yoke on his soul chafing already after a day and a night of wearing it. Despite Valjean’s awareness that he deserved this degradation after what he’d done, something inside him couldn’t help but struggle against the unfairness of it all.

Javert exhaled, sounding almost pleased when he stood at last, taking a step towards him. “Ah. There it is. I knew it would take more than that to beat obedience into you. Is there anything else you want to say to me?”

Valjean could feel the cry that was stuck in his throat, a heavy ball of despair and hate and a wild, blind defiance to Javert’s iron control that made his chest ache as if he’d swallowed something hard and sharp that would tear him apart if he didn’t let it out. Instead, he fought for control, staring desperately at the familiar shape of the horse in Javert’s hands until his eyes ached, too.

“No, sir,” he said at last, his throat burning as if the words were rocks he was forcing out.

Javert came even closer, until Valjean had to close his eyes and turn his face away, unwilling to give Javert the satisfaction of seeing his defeat.

“Good.” Javert spoke softly, his breath brushing against Valjean’s ear. “See that it stays that way.”

***

The rest of the day went somewhat easier. Even so, Valjean found himself praying that the burn would heal soon; he’d rather be digging all day in sun or rain together with the other men than spend a single further day with Javert, a defenseless target for every thought that came to Javert’s mind.

It wasn’t until it was finally evening that Valjean was returned to the barracks and the company of the other men. There was bread on the table, and something was cooking in a pot on the small stove.

The men and women were staring at him when he entered, but Javert’s orders had been very clear: Valjean was to wash and dress in clean clothes. He ignored the stares as he made his way into the small room with the narrow cots that he was to share with the other two men. He could see that they had claimed their beds while he’d been forced to spend the night in Javert’s apartment.

Valjean hesitated a moment, then chose the bed closest to the small, grimy window. Perhaps it would be smarter to choose a bed closer to the door, but the moonlight was gleaming on the roof of the house opposite their window, and something about the sight felt calming— a reminder that freedom was waiting for him still, that it would only take a year’s time until he could escape for good.

Hastily, he washed himself with a pitcher of cold water, then drew on a clean shirt and trousers. Despite all of Robert’s gentle hinting, he had never seen the need to spend much money on his wardrobe; the clothes he owned were serviceable enough, and surely the men who had encouraged him to wear the mayor’s sash had known that they would not find a mayor wearing silken cravats and velvet waistcoats in him. Even so, the clothes Javert had chosen to keep were the simple clothes of a workingman. Without doubt Javert had meant this as a further humiliation, but after so many years of wearing the mayor’s guise, Valjean welcomed the honest, humble clothes. Such a thing could not shame him—not him, a convict from the prison hulks.

It was a small mercy to be spared the red, but a mercy it was—and when the day came that Fantine and her daughter were reunited, it would make it easier to slip off his chains and run. No doubt Javert was aware of that as well. Still. Surely even Javert would slip in his watchfulness every now and then, especially once a year had passed without incident.

When he returned to the small room where the other four newly indentured servants of the town had now sat down at the small table for their meal, the room fell quiet for a moment.

Valjean tried to catch Fantine’s eyes, guilt churning in him once again when he remembered how she had smiled when he’d employed her, noticing the way she now held herself, her lips pressed tightly together and her face turned away.

“Oh, come on, Fantine,” one of the men said. “It was a joke. Anyway, I bet you’re spending the night in a softer bed than we will. You won’t get off more than once. You think he’ll want that one to ladle his soup when he could have _you_ serve him tonight?”

“Leave her alone,” the other man said. “It’s none of your concern anyway. It is how it is.”

“None of my concern? And what do you think—”

Valjean stood as if frozen, staring at Fantine with wide eyes as a terrible realization filled him. At last Fantine turned her head. When she saw him, her eyes narrowed and she spit in his direction. “You can cook your own food,” she said. “ _Monsieur le Maire_. I’d rather serve Javert than you, that’s for sure.”

“Ha, you hear that?” The first man waggled his eyebrows at his neighbor, but Fantine ignored him, still staring at Valjean with such fury that Valjean took a step backwards.

He’d been so glad to have escaped Javert after the long day of his many small humiliations that he’d all but forgotten that he wasn’t the only one in Javert’s power.

No, and he wasn’t the only one, either, who had reason to fear Javert. If Javert were so inclined—if he were that sort of man...

Valjean felt sick as he stood there, helplessly staring at Fantine. She _was_ beautiful; she was indeed the sort of woman a man in Javert’s position would take advantage of, and Valjean couldn’t stop it. He was no longer Javert’s superior. He’d already used the only coin left to him in Arras to bargain for Fantine’s child.

Now, if Javert wanted to force Fantine into his bed, there’d be nothing Valjean could do, and her suffering would be just one further burden added to the long tally of his sins.

Valjean drew in a trembling breath, then suddenly straightened when he remembered Javert’s arousal.

There wasn’t only Fantine Javert was interested in. It was certainly possible that all Javert had taken pleasure from was seeing Valjean humiliated. He could have had forced Valjean into his bed a night ago, after all, and hadn’t. Perhaps Valjean’s shame was all Javert desired, and he’d slake his desires on that poor woman in front of Valjean, who was here only through his own fault.

But he didn’t think that was what Javert wanted. Or perhaps he wanted both, Valjean couldn’t say. Still, he’d seen the way Javert had grown hard. He’d seen the heat in his eyes.

And if this was the sacrifice that was asked of him to make up for what he’d done to Fantine, Valjean would bring it, and willingly.

He started when the door suddenly opened. One of Javert’s agents came in, his eyes suspiciously narrowing when they came to rest on Valjean. Valjean didn’t dare to breathe when the man turned away from him for a moment to stare at Fantine, who’d frozen at his entrance, her spoon halfway to her mouth.

Then the man turned back to Valjean. “You,” he said, making no effort to hide his disgust, when just a day ago he’d greeted Valjean with the utmost respect whenever he passed him. “He wants you tonight. Hurry up.”

***

His heart was beating with relief as much as terror when Valjean found himself assisting Javert once more: taking the gray greatcoat to hang it by the door, taking the coat of black wool, kneeling before Javert to pull off his boots, and serving Javert a dinner of bread, wine and cheese, all the while aware of the door behind them that led into Javert’s bedroom.

It was Valjean, not Fantine, doing all these things. There was relief in that. There was even a justice in it Valjean could appreciate: it was he who had doomed Fantine to this existence; it was only right that it was him, then, who should bear this cross at least.

If Javert wanted it, that was. Valjean was still no closer to figuring out whether this was what Javert had summoned him for, or whether Javert simply enjoyed the view of Valjean’s degradation, saving other desires for later days and a different servant.

When he’d kneeled before Javert to pull of his boots, his hand had brushed the inside of Javert’s thigh by accident. Javert’s lips had parted then, his eyes dark and heated, and Valjean had thought that between his legs, he’d seen something stir beneath the cloth of his trousers again.

But Javert made no further demands of him in that direction. Instead, Javert spent an hour or two reading while Valjean had the honor of sweeping his floors. It wasn’t until Javert at last rose to retire to bed that Valjean realized that it would be him spending the night once more.

Javert gestured towards his bedroom, and with a deep breath, Valjean obeyed. When he entered, he saw that the blanket was resting on the floor, folded, the way he had left it. Javert was behind him, not paying him any attention as he returned his book to a shelf.

Valjean stared at the bed, his throat dry. He thought of Fantine’s tears when she’d left his factory.

Then he began to undress.

Javert wasn’t watching him, for once, and Valjean had to swallow back shame when he saw why: the bronze inkstand in the shape of a horse was in his hands, Javert turning it this way and that, as if to decide whether it should adorn his desk, his book shelf or the window sill.

Already the sight no longer hurt as much as it had earlier that day. Robert had been wrong to place his faith in him, after all. Given enough time, who could say if Valjean wouldn’t have betrayed him the way he had betrayed Fantine? It was a friendship he hadn’t earned, in any case, just as he hadn’t earned the gift. It had been a gift for Madeleine, not Valjean—just as Robert’s friendship had been for Madeleine.

It was Valjean who had been lying to Robert all along.

He folded his trousers and placed them on top of the blanket at the foot of the bed. He hesitated for a moment. He was still wearing his shirt, which went to his thigh, covering him. He knew he should pull it off as well. Shame had no place in this room, not with what he was offering.

Still, when he at last silently moved onto Javert’s bed, it was with the shirt still covering him. He hadn’t managed to bring himself to bare himself completely to Javert—not even now, when he was offering the only thing left to him.

He settled at the head of the bed, just when Javert set the inkstand down on his desk with a pleased sound.

And then Javert finally turned around.


	6. Chapter 6

Javert stood motionless. His gaze raked up and down Valjean’s body, although Javert’s face betrayed no surprise. Was he astonished by the action Valjean had taken? Or had Valjean simply anticipated something he would have been commanded to do minutes later?

Valjean could not say, but although Javert stood frozen, every muscle in his body suddenly tense like a pointer that had scented prey, there was no anger on his face at seeing Valjean take possession of Javert’s own bed when by all rights, Valjean’s place was on the floor.

Valjean’s guess had been correct. Something twisted in his stomach at the realization. He had to force himself to keep breathing beneath the weight of Javert’s gaze.

A moment later, still unmoving, Valjean watched as Javert’s tongue came out to moisten his lip, shockingly pink and wet. The sight sent a jolt through Valjean, his heart racing in his chest. He tightened his fingers in the sheets to hide their shaking.

At last Javert exhaled, the sound one of deep satisfaction, as if the sight of Valjean in his bed had given him an answer he’d been searching for.

“Take off your shirt.”

Valjean swallowed. Then his hands went to the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he drew it off, aware of the burning sensation of Javert’s eyes on him.

Javert’s sheets were cool against his skin. He could barely breathe, something inside his chest so tight that every breath was a struggle. He’d never felt more exposed—not on the platform in the market square yesterday, not even when Javert had told him to spread himself open for his inspection.

Javert’s gave him a fleeting smile that didn’t seem as if it was meant for him. More likely, perhaps, was that Valjean had proved one of Javert’s theories right. What theory that would be Valjean couldn’t say—and in any case, he was tired: tired of predicting what Javert was going to say or think, tired of having to rein in his own fear and anger, tired of fearing what was to come.

If Javert had anticipated that it would come to this, all the better. Valjean knew after all what it was Javert truly wanted. It wasn’t his servitude or his body.

Javert wanted his humiliation. His degradation.

And Valjean would let him have it, for as terrified he was of what was going to happen, it meant that it wouldn’t be visited upon Fantine tonight.

Again Javert’s lips twitched, although his amusement didn’t last for long, as if he was too astonished.

“Very well then,” Javert said, and then he began to strip.

Valjean’s throat constricted further as he watched Javert take off his clothes, folding them orderly and resting them on his chair, one by one—his black coat, the gray waistcoat, the meticulously tied cravat of a fine, gray linen, the trousers of black wool—until at last Javert stood before him only in his shirt.

Again Javert exhaled, amused, and Valjean’s heart skipped a beat when he realized that there, beneath the soft, white cotton, something had stirred. No, he hadn’t read Javert wrong at all.

Then Javert drew off his shirt, and Valjean’s breath caught in his throat. He’d seen Javert naked in the morning, when he’d washed. But as nervous as Valjean had been, Javert’s attention hadn’t been on him—the act unthreatening, strangely domestic.

Now Valjean couldn’t look away as terror made his heartbeat pulse in his throat.

Javert was completely nude. Despite his smaller stature, his body was firm with muscle. Valjean knew that he was the stronger man—there had never been a man stronger than him, even in the prison hulks. But even so, Javert stood before him with the absolute confidence of a man who’d never been forced to strip and been searched by unkind hands, whose body had always only belonged to himself. His skin gleamed in the light of the fire that warmed Javert’s bedroom, a smooth brown that was free of the scars that lined Valjean’s body. It was of a warmer shade than that of Cochepaille, who’d been chained by Valjean’s side for several years before Chenildieu had taken his place.

The thought of his old friends made Valjean close his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. Were they already back in Toulon? No; the trial had been only yesterday; they might not even have left Arras yet. How strange; already, it felt like years had passed since he’d entered the courtroom...

When he opened his eyes again, Javert was still watching him. Valjean forced himself to lower his gaze until it came to rest on where Javert was indeed as hard as he had suspected.

Javert was large, the sight of him intimidating and lewd, although Valjean was no stranger to the sight after nineteen years in the prison hulks, chained side by side without any privacy. He’d seen a hundred men in such a state, perhaps even more; some had even been larger.

Still, this was different. This wasn’t an arousal brought on by dreams or even the touch of a chainmate. It was the sight of Valjean at his mercy that had made Javert’s cock harden. And this time, Valjean’s strength wouldn’t help him—this time, he’d have to surrender himself willingly. Otherwise, it might be Fantine in his place tomorrow.

Javert at last came forward, Valjean’s heartbeat increasing. Even so, he made no move to escape Javert’s touch when he joined him on the bed. Slowly, Javert reached out, trailing a finger down Valjean’s chest, across his stomach that was still tight with dread. Valjean was soft, but at the sight, Javert’s lips quirked again in amusement.

“So this is what you’ve chosen. Did you think I wouldn’t take you up on it? You’d be wrong.”

Valjean struggled to draw in another breath when Javert moved even closer. Nevertheless, he allowed his legs to spread when Javert settled between his thighs.

“Never fucked a man before,” Javert murmured, running a hand up Valjean’s thigh, then forcing him to spread his legs even wider. “Well, you probably won’t care.”

With a laugh, Javert reached out for the unlit lamp on the nightstand. It seemed that just like Valjean, Javert had learned enough from observing the goings-on in the prison hulks to know to smooth some oil over himself.

But then, that shouldn’t come as a surprise, Valjean thought dimly, his eyes riveted to where Javert’s gleaming fingers grasped his own erect prick. Javert had cleaned and bandaged Valjean’s burn, too. Javert wanted to see him degraded—but he didn’t want him injured, not when there was work waiting for Valjean during the day. There was no kindness in Javert, no mercy.

“So silent now? Maybe this is what you’ve been waiting for all along.”

Javert’s slick finger ran up his crease, found the tight opening there. Mortified, Valjean realized that a sound had escaped his lungs at the touch. Above him, Javert was smiling.

“Seems I was right about that.”

Javert’s finger circled the rim, then pressed inside. Valjean’s heart was beating so rapidly inside his ribcage that he thought he was going to faint. Instead, Javert slid a second finger inside him, the oil making it easier to bear than when Javert had searched him a day ago.

“Eager, aren’t you?” With another laugh, Javert withdrew—and then, at last, he moved over Valjean, who gasped in sudden terror, his nails digging into the sheets as terror rose within him.

His thighs were spread around Javert’s hips. Javert’s skin was hot against his own as Javert bent further forward, looming above Valjean. Javert’s cock slid against his crease, hot and slick with the oil—and then it found his hole.

Javert felt impossibly big, much larger than the fingers he’d been forced to become accustomed to over the years. Despite the oil, it ached when the head of Javert’s cock slid inside him, spreading him open until Valjean gasped at the burn.

Above him, Javert groaned—and then his hips came forward, the hard length of his prick sinking deeper into Valjean. Despite the ache and the humiliation, there was a sudden spark of heat that made Valjean arch his back involuntarily.

Javert pulled back a little, then pushed forward again, and the same spark flared, igniting all of his nerves. Above him, Javert was groaning now, his eyes half closed as his body slid against Valjean’s, faster and faster. Valjean felt impossibly full, the violated muscle forced wide open, Javert so deep inside him that he could feel the hot weight of Javert’s balls against his skin every time Javert sank into him to the hilt. It was nearly unbearable to feel Javert so deep inside him, touching him in places that had never been touched before. There was no escape from Javert’s mastery of him even within his own body—but even so, with every agonizing, possessive thrust, there was also an insidious pleasure.

Dimly, as if from far away, Valjean could hear low moaning. His body still hurt, Javert too large—but even so, he scrabbled for purchase on the sheets beneath him as the unbearable pressure within him built and built. Each time Javert slid in and out of him, the motion made new sparks flare up inside him. The rub of Javert’s heavy prick within him was as humiliating as it felt good. And finally even that ache fell away, his body surrendering itself willingly to the rough possession, his hips arching to feel Javert deeper, to make that friction within him last and last and last.

He was panting, he realized at last, more surprised to feel the hot skin of Javert’s shoulders beneath his fingertips than he was to realize that the distant moans he’d heard were his own.

Even now, Valjean couldn’t control the sounds that broke free when Javert thrust back inside him, Valjean’s fingers curling against Javert’s damp skin to hold him closer. Valjean’s entire body was shaking, Javert’s sweat mingling with his own. His hair must have escaped the ribbon; now it stuck to his cheeks, and still all Valjean could do was gasp for air as Javert sunk into him again, a line of fire racing up his spine, his stomach tight with a terrible need.

His cock was trapped between their bodies, aching as much as his abused hole now. And still he couldn’t help but hold on to Javert, squeezing his eyes shut as tears welled up in his eyes. Again Javert buried himself inside him, ruthlessly laying claim with thrust after thrust. Valjean kept gasping for breath as his cock ached relentlessly, chafing against Javert’s stomach with every motion of Javert above him.

Another thrust, the need so sharp that something close to a sob escaped Valjean’s throat. His nails dug into Javert’s shoulder as he writhed beneath him—and then, just like that, still impaled on Javert’s hard cock, Valjean shuddered all over, tears leaking from his eyes as heat rushed through him at last.

Even then, while his body was still trembling with a terrible pleasure, Javert continued to fuck him through it. Every motion of his hips sent another surge of pleasure through Valjean until it was nearly too much—and then Javert, too, groaned, the muscles beneath Valjean’s hands going tight.

Javert found his climax with short, brutal thrusts. His hips rolled against Valjean’s again and again, the heat of his release spreading inside Valjean—and when Javert finally slowed down with another satisfied groan, Valjean realized to his utter mortification that he was still clutching Javert’s shoulders as if to hold him close, the way a lover might.

Javert’s skin was wet with sweat, his muscles slowly relaxing as he went limp above Valjean. When he rolled to his side, Valjean gasped again at the sensation of Javert’s softening cock pulling out of him, his hands slipping at last from Javert’s shoulders.

He felt sore, his hole still aching. Worse, he could feel the hot trickle of Javert’s release out of him. He flushed, breathless and embarrassed by the thought of Javert’s spend filling him, claiming him—marking him as what he was.

It was the sound of Javert’s chuckle that drew him out of his thoughts. Then Javert touched his bare stomach with a finger, and when Valjean looked down at himself, he saw that he had softened again—and that there, on his stomach, gleamed a small pool of his own spend.

Javert dragged his finger through it. “Should have known,” he said with satisfaction in his voice. “You must have missed that. Is that why you came to Arras? Were you eager to see your old _friends_ again?”

Valjean felt heat rush to his face, but he swallowed down the angry denial. Javert would not believe him in any case—not with the way he’d moaned and clung to him, arching beneath him. Not with the way his own spend was still wet on his skin, the undeniable proof of how much he’d wanted Javert’s use of him. The pleasure he’d found in it.

Instead of an answer, he turned his face away in quiet humiliation. A moment later, Javert’s hand clenched around his chin and forced him to meet Javert’s gaze once more.

“Open your mouth,” Javert said.

His heart suddenly beating in his throat once more, Valjean found himself reluctantly obeying. He’d spent the entire day in Javert’s presence—save for those minutes in the barracks. Did Javert truly think that he’d managed to find a small file and hide it in his mouth during that time?

Javert made another small, amused sound when Valjean’s lips reluctantly parted. And then Javert’s mouth was on his.

Shocked, Valjean held still. He could hear nothing but the rapid beating of his own heart. Javert’s hand was still on his chin, his thumb sliding slowly over his skin. Then Javert’s tongue slid into his mouth.

The sensation was obscene. Javert’s tongue was shockingly hot and wet, and when it slid against his own, Valjean trembled. He’d never experienced such a sensation before. His heart was racing as if it wanted to escape his chest, but he forced himself to hold still. Even if he’d wanted to, he didn’t think that he could have moved—not with Javert’s tongue sliding deeper into his mouth, sliding along his own tongue, Javert’s saliva filling his mouth in a sensation so shockingly intimate that he could only tremble and let it happen.

He couldn’t say for how long it went on. There were tears leaking from his eyes again, but Javert didn’t stop, taking possession of him in a way completely unlike the relentless violation of his body earlier.

Javert’s tongue was strangely soft. It didn’t ache to surrender himself to Javert’s demands in such a way—instead, there was a surreal pleasure in the way Javert’s tongue explored his mouth. How odd that there should be anything soft about Javert at all, he found himself thinking when Javert at last pulled back.

Shocked, stunned, Valjean licked at his swollen lips, then flushed again at the way that his mouth was still filled by the taste of Javert.

“Do you think that you can deny me?” Javert asked softly.

They were still resting side by side, Javert’s warm skin pressed to his, Javert’s breath warm against his cheek when he spoke.

“ _Me?_ Do you still not know who I am? You told me I am ambitious when I arrived here.”

Javert’s lips twisted into a small smile again, and all Valjean could think about was the way that Javert’s taste lingered on his tongue even now, the way Javert’s lips had been incongruously soft when the words they spoke were so cruel.

“Well, you were right about that. In Toulon, I was just a guard—little better than the beasts I guarded. But we’re no longer in the prison hulks, and I’m not just a guard. I’m the chief of police of this town. A small town—but there will be other towns. Paris, perhaps. Unlike you, I’ve worked hard to be where I am. And I’ll have my due. Not just because it’s a lesson you need to learn. Not just because you thought you could fool me. But because it’s my right, and I won’t be denied. Not by anyone. And especially not by you. Is that clear?”

Valjean swallowed, his voice hoarse when he spoke. “Yes, sir.”

Javert was too close. Valjean was exhausted and afraid, and even now stunned by what had come to pass—by how easily he’d succumbed to Javert, how he’d moaned, might even have begged for it if that was what Javert had demanded…

When Javert gave him a little push, Valjean was glad for the opportunity to flee his embrace.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” Javert said lazily.

Valjean flushed again when Javert’s gaze still rested on him when he stood before the wash basin, wiping away the warm seed that had trickled down his thigh and the mess on his stomach. When he hesitantly approached the bed afterward, Javert huffed another amused laugh.

“Think you’ve earned a night in a soft bed for that? Well, maybe.”

Valjean had to force himself not to look away when Javert looked him up and down, languid and satisfied.

“Ah, but sleeping in my bed comes with a condition. I’ll expect to be woken up in the morning with that insolent mouth put to good use. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Valjean swallowed, his heart thudding painfully as he turned his face away.

Javert laughed again. “Prefer the floor? Suit yourself.”

Even now, curling up by the foot of Javert’s bed, Valjean could still taste him in his mouth, could still _feel_ him: the touch that had been so shockingly soft, the tense, hot body pressing him into the bed—and he could feel the harsh reality of Javert’s mastery over him in the way his body ached, unaccustomed to the deep penetration.

He exhaled, turning until at last Javert rose to wash himself and then chain Valjean to a leg of the bed again. Afterward, Valjean tried to be quiet and focus on the sound of his breathing instead of thinking about what had come to pass, but it was impossible.

He clenched his burned hand until tears welled up in his eyes once more at the pain. Even so, he couldn’t forget the way he’d writhed beneath Javert. And still, although he was half-sick with shame at his behavior, he could feel the seductive glide of Javert’s tongue against his, hot and soft and gentle, when Valjean more than any other knew that there was nothing about Javert that was soft, and nothing that was gentle.


	7. Chapter 7

Javert woke, feeling immensely pleased. It took a long moment until he remembered enough to realize where the feeling came from. Once he did, he smiled to himself as he stretched, remembering the sensation of Valjean beneath him, at his mercy: the tight clutch of Valjean’s body that was at last no longer resisting him, the sound of Valjean’s moans.

When Javert rose to wash, he saw that Valjean was already awake, still chained in place on the floor and watching him with wary eyes.

Javert chuckled to himself as he stepped towards the washbasin.

Outside, the sun was rising. Two of his agents had been on watch last night, and had hopefully left him their reports in the station-house downstairs. Furthermore, there was the matter of Valjean’s former possessions. It would take a while until all of that was settled—the man’s house and the factory would have to be sold, together with the items they’d begun to list. And then Javert was still convinced that somewhere among the mayor’s papers, there might be hints as to accomplices or past crimes.

Nevertheless, following the arrest of the mayor of Montreuil, Javert knew that his name would be spoken in Paris with praise. And those who’d looked upon him as an intruder into the prefecture would soon find out that they’d been wrong.

No, Javert had no intention at all to spend the rest of his life in provincial Montreuil—and Valjean had made certain that he’d be able to leave for a better post much sooner than he’d anticipated.

Javert began to shave, ignoring the reflection of Valjean in his mirror. Valjean, in turn, remained blessedly silent—although Javert was certain that it wouldn’t last for long. He knew the man, after all. And he’d just been handed the proof that even nineteen years in the prison hulks had not broken the man’s obduracy.

It seemed that this was going to be his task here in Montreuil. When he left for a better position, it would be with Valjean fully subdued, no matter what.

Once Javert had finished, he released Valjean from his handcuff, watching from his desk while Valjean hurriedly washed and dressed. 

There was something pleasing about the sight—more pleasing even than it had been the day before. Perhaps it was simply the memory of those strong thighs spreading, the obstinate man finally surrendering in more than just empty words.

Javert allowed his gaze to linger on the strong thighs and the firm buttocks. He could still remember the sensation of Valjean’s hands curling against his shoulders as he panted helplessly. The memory was even more pleasing than the sight of the scars crossing Valjean’s back that were finally revealed to the light.

Last night, Javert had felt for the first time as if he’d truly received a surrender that went deeper than mere words. And he could have it again and again, until Valjean had learned his lesson. Until Javert was sure that Valjean wouldn’t rebel against it again.

When Valjean was finished, Javert pointed to the floor in front of him.

“Kneel.”

Valjean followed, his eyes still wary, but strangely subdued, as though he’d finally realized the full extent of the power Javert’s position gave him.

Javert opened the drawer. From it, he retrieved a clean bandage and the small pot of salve he’d used before. Then he grabbed hold of Valjean’s wrist and unwound the old bandage.

Valjean let it all happen, his eyes fixed on where Javert’s fingers encircled his wrist. He didn’t look up even when Javert dipped a cloth in water and began to clean his palm once more, although Javert could see Valjean’s fingers tremble while new lines of pain appeared around his mouth.

The burn didn’t look worse than it had the day in the carriage, which was a good sign. The wound wasn’t infected, and once it had started to heal, Valjean would have full use of his hand again.

Javert felt a smile tug on his lips as he circled the red burn carefully with the pad of his thumb, spreading salve while also examining the raised, burned skin. Valjean’s breath was coming quickly, his tendons taut like steel wire against Javert’s fingers, but he let it happen without uttering a single sound of pain.

“Look at that,” Javert muttered, amused by the familiar shape beneath his fingertip. “Heads or tails, Valjean? Looks like we’ll find out once it heals.”

Valjean’s head sank even further forward. Without a ribbon to tie his hair back, it fell into his face, shielding him from Javert.

Slowly, meticulously, Javert wound the new bandage around Valjean’s hand and tied it in place. Then, when Valjean allowed his hand to drop with a sigh of relief, Javert reached out to brush back Valjean’s hair, his thumb tracing along his cheek.

For a long moment, Javert lingered there, savoring the fact that at long last, this man was in his power after the nearly unendurable months of having to follow the commands of a convict. Beneath the pad of his thumb, he could feel the lines of Valjean’s jaw, rough with the stubble that was growing in. He traced along Valjean’s bottom lip, noting the way Valjean tensed.

When he pressed his thumb against Valjean’s mouth, the lips reluctantly parted, Valjean watching him from eyes that had gone dark with humiliation. Keeping the finger in his mouth to hold it open, Javert at last leaned forward to press his own mouth to Valjean’s, sliding his tongue inside. Now, despite all of his silent obedience, a muffled sound of shock escaped Valjean, and he shuddered. With great relish, Javert licked against Valjean’s tongue, pleased by how Valjean had to surrender even to this.

Javert ran his tongue over his lips when he pulled back. Valjean’s eyes were still wide—and this time, Valjean was watching him, too shocked to try and hide behind the unruly curtain of hair once more.

Hesitantly, Valjean licked his lip as well. At last he broke his silence, his voice shaky.

“Why?”

Javert exhaled, surprised and strangely amused that it was this that made Valjean speak. “I told you. You’ll give me what I desire. You won’t keep anything from me. You thought you could fool me for more than a year. You thought this was a game you could win. But I’ve known all along what you are. And this time, I’ll make sure that you drink your degradation down to the last dregs. If I have to force it down your throat with my own hand, drop by drop by drop.”

Valjean swallowed convulsively, and Javert reached out again to wind a strand of hair around his finger, giving it a small, experimental tug.

“Now as to this...”

There was a pair of scissors on his desk as well. Javert reached out for it—and now, for the first time, Valjean flinched away from him, a pained sound escaping him when Javert refused to let go of the strand in his hand. A moment later, Valjean seemed to remember where he was, and he reluctantly straightened, but Javert could see that his chest was rising and falling rapidly now. Valjean’s face was paler than it had been before, his eyes darker, nostrils flaring like a horse spooked by a wolf, when all Javert had done was to reach for the scissors.

“Something wrong, Valjean?” he said pointedly, relinquishing the strand to grab hold of a fistful of hair.

Valjean watched him from wide, panicked eyes when the scissors came closer. He didn’t move this time, but when Javert positioned the blades so that they’d cut as close to the scalp as possible, he could feel Valjean tremble.

With the first cut, the fistful of hair he’d grabbed fell to the floor.

Valjean flinched, a motion that seemed entirely instinctive, for when Javert looked at him, he saw that Valjean’s eyes were closed, and that he’d clenched his hands—even the one that was burned.

With a thoughtful sound, Javert reached out again, running his fingers along Valjean’s scalp with deliberate slowness. He took hold of another hank of hair. Then he raised the scissors, allowing the blade to lightly touch Valjean’s head as he positioned it. Once more Valjean shuddered, as if he’d only barely managed to keep from yanking his head back.

Javert raised a brow. He watched when the blades came together, shearing off the section of hair.

Valjean was breathing shallowly. At the open triangle of his shirt, Javert could see that Valjean’s skin was damp with sweat, even though he’d only just washed.

Jean Valjean was afraid. Not of him. Not of what he could do—but of the scissors.

Javert laughed softly to himself, shaking his head as he continued, as slowly and meticulously as before. Little by little, Valjean’s hair fell away, revealing the bare convict skull that he’d known in the prison hulks, Valjean’s pale face and closed eyes no longer hidden from view.

“There. That’s better,” Javert said finally. “Now you look the part once more, monsieur 24601.”

He ran his hand over Valjean’s skull. He’d shorn the hair as short as was possible with a pair of scissors. The remaining hair felt bristly, Valjean’s skull beneath his palm strangely warm and vulnerable. Here and there, his fingertips encountered scars—old, raised lines left by injuries or an unkind barber.

Javert’s lips twitched. “I suppose it’s not only pleasurable memories of the hulks then?”

He could see the flush that rose to Valjean’s cheeks at his words, the way Valjean’s eyes first instinctively rose, then shied away from him.

“This is what you deserve. This is how the people of this town should see you. And they will. Believe me, they will.”

Javert kept running his hand possessively over Valjean’s head, taking note of the way Valjean’s mouth tightened, his entire body tense, desperate to get away. Still, Valjean remained on his knees, obedient—for now.

With a soft, pleased laugh, he at last released Valjean. 

Part of Javert’s morning was spent looking through the former mayor’s belongings once more. Even now, Valjean remained uncommonly quiet; today, when Javert made a joke about some idler begging for money in a letter addressed to the mayor, Valjean flushed as soon as he looked up, quickly lowering his eyes again and remaining silent. It was a marked difference to the man who’d dared to challenge him when it came to the candlesticks just a day ago.

The change was pleasing, Javert couldn’t deny that—especially given what had brought it about.

Javert had woken in a good mood which had lasted through the day, remembering with deep satisfaction the way Valjean’s body had yielded to him. Now, at last, everything was as it should have been all along. No more would Javert’s authority be undermined. In police matters, it was he who ruled. And he would continue to rule, to stamp out even the smallest crime that dared to show its face.

Soon enough, there would be other towns that followed, places to further distinguish himself. Paris, eventually. Javert still remembered the eyes that had rested on him with open distrust, the offices of the prefecture filled with men who looked little better than the men they hunted.

Let them distrust him. One day, they’d jump to do his bidding. He was certain of that.

For now, there was work to be done. The former mayor’s housekeeper had arrived earlier, demanding to know who would pay for the delivery of firewood that had arrived in the morning, and what was to be done about the Spanish gelding in the mayor’s stable.

The beast was magnificent, Javert had to admit that. An inspection of the stable had shown that there were oats and hay enough to last several weeks; even so, the lad who came by every day to see to the horse had demanded to be paid in advance as soon as he heard what had become of his employer.

“No more servants for you,” Javert told Valjean lazily, leaning against the box in which the golden gelding stood. “Are you still sure you made the right choice? Think of the tales you could’ve told in the prison hulks. You’d have been quite the sensation there, telling tales of how you’ve lorded it over respectable citizens.”

Valjean remained quiet. A moment later, the gelding came towards the door, ears curiously pointed forward. Then the proud neck bent gracefully as he snuffled at Javert’s cravat. When Javert turned around, the horse huffed against his offered hand before serenely allowing him to stroke his golden neck.

The beast was gorgeous—the finest in the department, or so the talk had been in town, back when people had still spoken Madeleine’s name with reverence.

Javert smiled to himself as he ran his hand along the muscled neck, the flaxen mane falling over his hand like silk. “You must be bored, cooped up in here all day. But not for much longer.”

The gelding exhaled noisily, watching him with bright eyes. A proud beast indeed—but, unlike Valjean, a creature well aware of its standing and its duty. It would carry any man who owned it.

“We’ll take you with us.” Javert ran his hand down the gelding’s nose. “No need for someone to come and look after you. And once all of Valjean’s belongings are sold, they’ll find a buyer for you as well. I’m sure you’ll fetch a good price.”

When he turned back to Valjean, the horse still contentedly exhaling against his shoulder, he found Valjean’s eyes lowered. The sight was pleasing, even though it brought with it a memory now of Valjean beneath him, defeated and damp with sweat, his chest heaving—much like a horse that had tried to fight the hand of its master.

Javert felt his smile widen. “Pick up his tack and that sack of oats. I’m taking him for now.”

“I’ll buy him.”

Surprised by the sudden interruption coming from the door that led out into the courtyard, Javert turned around. In the opening, outlined by the sunlight that fell in, a man was standing. When he took a step forward and took off his hat, Javert realized who it was: Monsieur Robert, one of the former mayor’s supporters.

Surely a man like Robert couldn’t still be feeling any kind of loyalty for a man from the hulks, a recidivist who’d fooled an entire town?

“The court will be glad to hear that,” Javert said. “Surely there will be an auction, once the investigation is finished.”

“I could take him right away,” Robert offered, his gaze still lingering on Valjean. “I’d save you the trouble of having to care for him—and the expense.”

Javert felt suspicion rise within him—but no, Robert was a respectable man. At most, this was a case of misguided sentimentality. A man like Robert, from a good, prosperous family, an elector, would not make common cause with a convict.

“It’s no trouble.” Javert kept smiling as he looked at Robert.

After a moment, Robert’s gaze returned to Valjean, and he swallowed. Robert seemed strangely unsettled, his eyes skittering away from Valjean before returning to him, and after a moment Javert realized that of course Robert had never seen Valjean like this—shorn like a convict.

“That’s more like it, isn’t it?” Javert said amicably. “You should have seen him in his red blouse. He would have frightened you right away. You’d never have offered your hand to a man like that.”

Robert still hesitated. Then his eyes came to rest on Valjean’s bandaged hand. “What happened to your hand?”

Javert watched, satisfied, when Valjean flushed, his face lowering further—but now there was no hair to hide his distress behind.

It was a strange thing that a man from the hulks should feel such shame. But then, of course, it was entirely possible that all of this was part of his game, too—a game devised to make Javert feel secure and relax his hold on him. After all, Valjean hadn’t blushed when he’d been chained and stripped in Toulon. And a man like that didn’t develop the sensitivities of a young girl late in life.

Especially not a man from the hulks with a convict’s tastes...

Javert could barely suppress a laugh at the thought. “It’s nothing. He burned himself. We’ll have him back digging and hauling rocks with the others in a day or two; don’t worry, monsieur. The town will get its labor out of him.”

When Robert remained by the door, still looking more shocked than he had any right to, Javert at last opened the box and grabbed the horse’s halter. The gelding came forward eagerly, snorting in excitement at getting to leave the stable.

“Valjean,” Javert said curtly. “Hurry up.”

Robert didn’t move when Javert led the golden gelding past him. He stopped the horse outside—and just as he had assumed, he could hear the soft whisper of voices within when Valjean passed Robert, carrying the gelding’s tack and the sack of oats.

“Madeleine—Valjean—are you well?”

Javert strained to listen. There was a long pause. Then, very quietly, he could make out Valjean’s voice.

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t worry about me. You’re a good man, and people will talk if they see you—”

“I don’t care about people! It’s not right what’s been done to you. All you’ve done for this town—”

“I have to go. Goodbye, Robert.”

Javert stroked the gelding’s gleaming coat, who’d raised his head, his nostrils wide as he followed the path of a bird that had alighted from a tree in the former mayor’s courtyard. A moment later, Valjean appeared from the stable. Javert gave him a cold smile, and Valjean guiltily lowered his eyes.

It was a pity that Valjean, that conniving fox, had managed to win a respectable bourgeois’ heart. Javert could hardly criticize Robert openly for such ill-placed friendship.

In any case, it might not be necessary. It was a common annoyance that a soft-hearted man, no matter how respectable his place in the world, might be tricked into feeling pity for a degraded creature—a concubine, a thieving orphan, a stranger down on his luck who’d soon turn to murder. And perhaps that was the explanation for Valjean’s false piety during his years in Montreuil—it was well-known that Robert was a devout man who went to Mass every Sunday. No doubt that had been part of Valjean’s plan, too, to first win Robert’s trust and then use his influence to gain power over the town.

But now that Valjean’s mask was off, Robert would come to see the truth, even if it might take a few weeks. For men with such soft hearts, it always took time to accept the truth.

Still, Javert would make sure that this was a truth no one in the town would forget. They’d see Valjean’s degradation written on his body, in every drop of sweat, in every lifted rock, in hour after hour of hard labor to pay for his crimes. Javert would see to it himself.


	8. Chapter 8

It was already dark when Valjean was at last sent back to the barracks, with curt orders to wash and change. It was hard not to think of what had happened during the past night—still, as much as the shame burned inside him, there was the small spark of relief that Fantine had been spared that fate.

She looked tired, he saw when he entered the small room where the other indentured workers had already gathered around their rickety table once more. The smell of the food was familiar: a cabbage soup, and the four people gathered around the table held pieces of dark bread in their hands. Fantine’s hair was hidden beneath a dusty cap of faded blue. Her hands looked red and chafed, and the other workers all wore similar expressions of exhaustion.

Both of the men looked up when he entered, staring at him with mistrust and hostility. Was it because he was a convict—or was it because he hadn’t shared their labor?

It was impossible to spend nineteen years in the hulks without knowing what any sort of special treatment did to a man in such a group as theirs was. Still. He would make the same decision all over again, for Fantine’s sake.

Valjean gave her a tentative smile when she, too, turned her head to stare at him.

“You look tired,” he said softly. “Are they treating you well, Fantine?”

She spat in his direction again. “By all rights it should be you, working out there in the midday heat, breathing the dust of the road all day!”

Valjean lowered his head in acknowledgment of the truth of her words. “I’m sorry. If I could, I—”

The agent who’d accompanied him to the barracks banged on the door. “Hurry up, Valjean!”

Valjean exhaled. When he looked up, he saw that Fantine had demonstratively turned back to her bowl of soup, dipping the bread into the broth. There were only four bowls on the table. Only four pieces of bread. No one had thought to set a place for him.

Valjean felt his own exhaustion catch up with him.

Javert had made him carry boxes of his own possessions back and forth, and there had been the sack of oats—but neither had been heavy enough to reinjure his burned hands. The labor had been humiliating, but not particularly hard. He had no right to feel exhaustion, not when the others had been forced to take his part of the burden as they labored on the street by the ramparts.

Quietly, he went into the chamber where the narrow beds stood. There was an old washbasin, and a pitcher that still had some water left in it. He washed himself hastily, then pulled on clean clothes.

When he emerged into the ante-chamber once more, the man called Caillot looked up, then snorted in derision.

“Still too good to work with us, eh, _Monsieur le Maire_?”

“I have no doubt he’ll have me working with you in a day or two,” Valjean said tiredly. It would be preferable, in any case, to spending all day beneath Javert’s eyes, listening to every terrible thought that came to Javert’s mind, worrying about what the night might bring.

“Is that so?” the other man asked. “From what we hear, you’ve made sure you get to sleep in a soft bed at night.”

“And probably eat his food, too.”

The door was impatiently thrust open. “Shut up and hurry, convict,” the agent barked. “Don’t make me wait again, or it’ll be a beating—for all of you.”

With his head lowered, Valjean followed. When he entered Javert’s apartment, he found Javert going through letters.

“Make yourself useful,” Javert said, staring at him across the desk. “Sweep the floor, brush my coat, clean my boots. Then set the table and serve my dinner.”

Valjean swallowed, his chest tight all of a sudden as he looked at Javert, whose eyes gleamed in the light of the candle. Just one day ago, Javert’s body had pressed him into the bed, and he’d felt Javert’s skin, damp with perspiration, hot against his own...

He flushed and hastily turned away to retrieve Javert’s coat, to which some of the golden hairs of the palomino clung, together with the dust of the streets.

Every now and then, he looked up, only to find Javert still bent over his letters. It was a relief to be spared those burning eyes boring into his own—eyes that had seen him writhe, eyes that had seen him come undone as easily as if he’d planned to seduce Javert all along.

Was that what Javert thought?

Yet what did it matter if he did? Javert already thought that Valjean was the lowest of the low. And as long as it pleased him to call in Valjean to serve him in the evenings, Fantine was safe. That was what mattered.

Carefully, Valjean hung the clean coat in its place by the door. Then he retrieved Javert’s boots, settling with them on the ground by the stove so that he had light for his work.

The work was almost meditative. If Javert truly thought that he could humiliate him with honest work, he was wrong. When Valjean was young, he had stolen not because he was too lazy for hard work, but simply because there was no work to be had.

Perhaps there had been hubris in accepting the mayor’s sash—Valjean could see that now. He had thought to do good, but had not Fantine’s case shown that even when he thought to do the right thing, what he touched would turn to misery? Instead of striving for more, he should have been satisfied with a quiet, simple life after the hulks. After all, he had never shied away from work. And whatever Javert might think, there was no shame in the simple tasks he was ordered to do.

When Valjean raised his eyes, having regained a small amount of calmness from the repetitive motion of the greasy cloth against the leather, he found that Javert was no longer focused on his letters. Instead, Javert’s gaze was resting on him once more, and immediately heat rushed to Valjean’s face.

Shakily, he looked at where his fingers were rubbing the black grease into the shining leather, but it was no use. Already the thoughts of what Javert would demand this night had returned and refused to leave.

It was no matter, he told himself. There was no shame in that, either—he didn’t submit to gain an advantage, to make his life easier, but to spare someone else from having to take his position. And yet, if that were the case, then why had he clung to Javert like that...?

His mind skidded away from the thought, and he hastily raised his eyes once more.

Javert was still watching him, and this time, with his heart suddenly thudding against his ribs, Valjean found himself unable to avert his gaze.

After a moment, Javert put his pen aside, steepling his fingers. “Don’t get used to this. After tomorrow, you’ll be back at work with the others. You think you’re lucky you escaped a lifetime in the hulks, but this isn’t the stroke of luck you think it is. I’ll make sure of that.”

“I’m not afraid of work,” Valjean said. “I was a pruner once.”

Javert’s lips twisted into a smile. “You’re not a pruner. You’re a convict. A man from the prison hulks. Nineteen years, Valjean. You’ll never be anything else in your life, and I’ll make sure you know that.”

Valjean swallowed, then lowered his gaze. Beneath his hands, the leather of Javert’s boots was gleaming, polished to spotless perfection.

“I know it, sir,” he said quietly, thinking of the disbelief on Robert’s face once more, the way Fantine had turned away from him. “I know it.”

Javert made a disbelieving, amused sound. “We’ll see about that.”

Then he took up another piece of paper, dipping his quill into the inkwell that had once stood on Valjean’s desk. A moment later, the scratching sound of the nib on paper filled the room once more, and Valjean continued to mechanically rub the grease into the supple leather, trying not to think of what was to come.

An hour later, Javert finally set his letters aside, motioning for Valjean to start serving his dinner. There was a woman who cooked for him; the fare, Valjean had seen, was simple but better, perhaps, than what an inspector would have in other towns. He himself had made certain of that, after all, forcing himself to fund the town’s police with the same generosity with which he funded hospital beds, doctors and teachers.

Now, as Valjean laid the table with the simple china that would have been purchased with his money, just like the table and the bed in which he had been forced to surrender himself to Javert, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret at his generosity.

Perhaps, had he been less generous, Javert would not have been sent here. Perhaps, had he made it clear right from the start that Javert’s impertinent insinuations were an affront he wouldn’t let pass, Javert would’ve never probed further, and Valjean wouldn’t have been so shaken by his fear and guilt that he’d sent Fantine away...

But no, that was impossible. In that case, another man would be wearing his chains in the hulks now, condemned to an eternity of a suffering that was Valjean’s burden to carry.

There were already too many Valjean had wronged. The weight of yet another soul on his conscience would be unbearable.

Quietly, he served Javert his dinner: cold chicken, bread, and cheese. At Javert’s command, he poured a glass of wine as well. Valjean realized with surprise that he was hungry as well: he’d had stale bread and a bit of cheese when Javert had eaten at noon, but he hadn’t been given enough time to join the other workers for their sad dinner—if they’d even shared with him.

Valjean returned the bottle of wine to the small cabinet, then turned towards Javert again. But this time, Javert didn’t have another task waiting for him. Instead, Javert gave him a thoughtful look, then motioned with a finger, summoning him closer.

When Valjean hesitantly approached, Javert pointed to the ground next to his chair.

“Kneel,” he said a moment later, impatience in his voice, when Valjean gave him a questioning look.

Valjean swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest once more. Slowly, he sank to his knees, struggling to keep his mind free from thoughts of what Javert might demand. What use was there in fear anyway? As Javert had already proved to him, there was nothing he couldn’t demand—and nothing Valjean wouldn’t do.

A moment later, Javert’s fingers touched his head. Instinct made Valjean flinch; in return, Javert made a low sound of amusement, his fingers tightening around Valjean’s skull for a moment before he slowly, thoughtfully, stroked Valjean, as if to reassure himself of the success of his morning’s work.

Valjean forced himself to hold still for it. Once more he told himself that there were worse things Javert could demand. Earlier, he’d been able to acknowledge that there was no shame in sweeping a floor, in polishing boots, or even in carrying rocks with the other indentured workers. But there was nothing that could take away the burning shame at this reminder of who he was, Javert’s fingers awakening the memories of nineteen long years of pain and unkind hands, of being shorn like a beast, and of hands and dull blades that had no care for the skin they nicked.

Valjean remained on his knees, his hands clenched despite the pain of the burn, even when Javert at last ceased touching him. For long minutes, there was only the sound of Javert eating.

Finally, when Valjean dared to relax at last, believing the torment to be over, he saw a motion from the corner of his eye. When he turned his head, he saw that Javert was holding a piece of bread in his fingers—holding it close to his mouth, as if he expected Valjean to feed out of his hand, like an animal.

Valjean’s heart thudded against his ribcage, his empty stomach clenching with the reminder that all the food he’d had was the sparse meal at noon.

Javert kept holding out the morsel of food—temptingly, or tauntingly?

Valjean turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut. A long moment later, he could hear Javert straightening in his chair once more.

“Suit yourself,” Javert said with a snort of amusement.

Then there were the familiar background sounds of Javert finishing his meal. Silently, Valjean remained on his knees, staring blindly at the pattern of the wooden floor before him, uncomfortably aware of every heartbeat that seemed to shudder through him with the force of a church bell.

It was foolish to deny Javert. Shouldn’t he have learned that lesson yesterday? And it was even more foolish to reject food—that was a lesson he should have learned in those nineteen years in the hulks, living on black bread and beans.

Still, the thought of feeding from Javert’s fingers like a tame animal had made him so sick at heart that he hadn’t been able to make himself surrender to that. Even now, the thought made him shiver with a pervasive unease he couldn’t shake.

Javert might command his body, but he didn’t possess his soul. Valjean could be forced to give his obedience—but his soul already belonged to another.


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Javert had finished another letter to the prosecutor in Arras, as well as a confidential summary of his investigation into the false mayor’s correspondence and belongings for Paris, his candle had nearly burned down. He closed the inkwell and returned his quill to its holder, taking a moment to admire yet again the elegant form of the bronze horse, made even more pleasing by the fact that it had once adorned Madeleine’s office.

Then he stood, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. At the sound Valjean looked up, then rose as well from where he’d been sitting on the floor.

When Javert nodded towards the door to his bedchamber, Valjean obeyed without protest; Javert lingered in the doorway for a moment to admire a view even more unlikely, and even more pleasing, than that of the bronze horse on his desk: Jean Valjean, his head bent, slowly stripping out of his clothes until only his shirt remained.

Then Valjean turned his head. When he caught Javert’s gaze, new heat rose to his cheeks. Still, he grasped hold of his shirt and pulled it off as well, revealing the strong, scarred back, before he settled down on Javert’s bed—still silent, but now without his hair to hide behind.

Javert smiled. “Ah, you assume I want you in my bed again.”

Valjean raised his head. “Don’t you?”

Javert exhaled in amusement, but didn’t answer. Valjean didn’t move off the bed in any case, and Javert stepped towards his washbasin, disrobing before he washed himself. The water was cold on his skin; even so, it did nothing to diminish the heat that had begun to rise at the sight of Valjean’s broad shoulders.

He took his time; the thought that Valjean had to wait on his pleasure, right here in his bedroom, was nearly as potent as the sight of that strong body finally at his mercy.

When he turned around at last, he saw that Valjean was indeed still waiting on the bed, his head lowered and his hands folded in his lap. Javert reached out to turn up the lamp until the room was brightly lit. Valjean was watching as Javert settled on the bed. Valjean’s eyes were wide and dark, his breath coming fast, but remaining motionless—the very image of submission.

Javert felt a smile tug at his lips as he reached out, trailing his fingers down the powerful chest. Muscles tensed at his touch, but Valjean didn’t move, the body that was as formidable as that of a lion bearing his touch without complaint.

Javert’s hand dropped lower, the muscles of Valjean’s stomach contracting. Valjean was soft; Javert ran his thumb along the small length, then smoothed his palm over a powerful thigh. Truly, in his own way, Valjean was as magnificent as his Spanish beast—and who knew, perhaps he could be tamed yet.

Javert grabbed hold of Valjean’s shoulder and pushed; Valjean followed obediently enough, allowing Javert to position him on his hands and knees. Slowly, Javert ran his hand over his back, inspecting the tapestry of scars. Nineteen years in the hulks and the punishment of four escapes had not tamed this man—and yet, wasn’t it true that for some men, it took more than the lash to teach them to bend to the law? 

Even now, with Valjean beneath his hands, it was impossible to forget the sensation of Valjean’s surrender during the past night. The mere thought made Javert’s body throb with renewed need, his arousal aching furiously as he allowed his hand to trail lower. Valjean’s buttocks were firm and round with muscles, and when Javert’s hand slid down the inside of a thigh, he could feel the shudder that ran through Valjean a moment before those strong thighs obediently spread.

Javert reached out for the oil, then smoothed it over himself. Valjean remained motionless, head bent in surrender, awaiting Javert’s pleasure. It was a marked difference to the filthy man who’d hung before him in chains once, watching him with the feral eyes of a wolf as Javert had circled him.

The memory made Javert smile.

“I have to admit,” he murmured when he moved forward, his hard cock sliding along the crease between Valjean’s buttocks, “that I was wrong about one thing. I thought you were a failure even for a criminal. Nineteen years for a loaf of bread, Valjean! But here you are. Playing at being a magistrate for years. Maybe they’d never have unmasked you if it wasn’t for me. See, I’ll admit that I was wrong. There’s more to you than I thought there was. It’s impressive, almost. Just think of what could have become of you if you’d followed my path.”

There was a soft, muffled groan from Valjean when Javert’s cock slowly began to push in. Valjean was tight—after all, it had been a while since he’d been in the hulks. And it seemed that he’d found no intimate friend here in Montreuil, too busy spinning his web of lies.

Still, the oil helped, and Valjean put up no protest. Javert’s hands kept running up and down Valjean’s thighs as he pushed in deeper, holding back a groan of his own at how tight and hot Valjean felt.

“Of course,” Javert said breathlessly at last, “men like you prefer the easy path of crime. I’ve seen it all my life. There you are, released at last, free after nineteen years—and the first thing you do is create a false identity, procure false papers, lie and steal until the first crime is dwarfed by your new evils.”

Another broken sound from Valjean, and when Javert pulled back, only to thrust back in, it turned into a moan, Valjean’s back arching.

Breathlessly, Javert laughed. Well, he’d been right about one thing. Valjean would never be able to deny his past in the hulks. He’d developed a taste for this sort of thing.

Perhaps it had even been Javert’s derision back in Toulon that had set Valjean on this path. Would that not be hilarious? To think that Valjean had wanted to prove that he was a better thief than Javert had believed…

“Perhaps I shouldn’t blame the people in this town—not, not even your dear friend M. Robert.” Javert held still for a moment, breathing heavily. “They don’t know what that is, a convict from the hulks. But I know you. From thief you turn false magistrate, forger, brigand, murderer, with as much ease as a woman changing her dress before she goes out. But I know. I know just what you are. And I’m going to put an end to it. This is what you are now, and what you’ll stay.”

Beneath him, Valjean groaned, his back damp with perspiration. Even now, when Valjean was completely at his mercy, Javert could feel the shudder that ran through his body.

“And what would you call this? Sir?” Valjean managed to ask, his voice tight, as if he had to struggle to hold back another groan.

Javert scoffed, then pushed in, all the way in one hard thrust. It forced a strangled gasp from Valjean, whose body tightened around Javert just as his arms gave in and he half collapsed. Javert leaned over him, trailing his lips over the droplets of sweat that stained Valjean’s bent neck.

“I’d call it _mine_. My servant. We’re not in the hulks, Valjean. You’ll be whatever I want you to be here. And for as long as I’m the chief of police of this town, you’ll do exactly as I say. You’ll dress me and wash me and serve me, you’ll warm my bed, and you’ll learn to do it well. I’ll make sure of that.”

Valjean’s only reply was a low moan when Javert pulled back. Valjean’s fingers clenched around the sheets until Javert grabbed hold of his wrists, pressing them against the small of Valjean’s back to hold them there as he pushed in again and again, Valjean so tight that the friction was almost painful. The sight of Valjean utterly defeated beneath him made his own cock throb as if even this wasn’t enough, the hunger within him still rising as he watched himself push in and out of Valjean’s spread hole.

To think that this man had pretended to be a magistrate; to think that he’d dared to give orders to Javert...

Valjean moaned brokenly into the sheets. Had M. Robert seen him now, what would he have said? The thought brought a smile to Javert’s face, his teeth scraping against a cluster of scars on Valjean’s right shoulder.

“You’re never going to be a magistrate again,” he said breathlessly, moments before he found release, burying himself inside Valjean with thrust after thrust while Valjean arched desperately against him.

Long minutes later, Javert lazily rubbed his thumb along a line that wrapped halfway around Valjean’s back. They had collapsed side by side. Even now he could feel the powerful body heaving as Valjean panted for breath. Valjean’s back was hot and slick with sweat beneath Javert’s touch. Javert only had to tilt his head for his mouth to brush against damp skin. With the tip of his tongue, he touched a glistening droplet that was running down from Valjean’s nape, tasting salt.

When he ran his hand down Valjean’s flank, touching the steely sinew and muscle of nineteen years of forced labor, he encountered a telltale stickiness on Valjean’s stomach. Smiling, he drew his thumb along the softening length that now curled damply against Valjean’s thigh before he nudged the testes beneath.

“No doubt you think that this will go the way it did in the hulks,” Javert murmured. “But I’m not easily fooled. I told you what I want from you. I’m not going to rest until you’ve learned this lesson. It’s going to take time, I know. But you’ll learn it. And until then… Well, perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise, given your time in the hulks, but I think you’ll find serving me a lot more agreeable than you’ve pretended so far. This,”—he nudged Valjean’s length again—”doesn’t lie.”

Valjean’s labored breathing had calmed a little. Still, the man was suspiciously silent. Embarrassed, perhaps, that Javert had once again beaten him at his own game.

With a soft laugh, Javert drew his hand up Valjean’s chest, his mouth still resting against his damp nape. “So. What will it be tonight? The offer of a soft bed still stands…”

For the span of three heartbeats, Valjean remain motionless in his embrace, his breath coming in soft, exhausted gasps. Then he pushed himself up on his arms, slowly leaving the bed without meeting Javert’s eyes.

For a moment, something not unlike regret rose in Javert, but he was quickly distracted by the pleasing sight of Valjean, still completely bare, making use of the washbasin to wipe the mess from his stomach and thighs. Then Valjean went to lie down on the wooden floor at the foot of his bed again.

He’d have Valjean, sooner or later. There was a sort of pride in such men of the hulks—and in Toulon, Valjean would no doubt have been able to boast of his exploits as magistrate. But soon, Valjean would learn that he’d be afforded no luxuries here, no respect from fellow prisoners. Here, in Montreuil, the only person whose opinion should matter to him was that of Javert. Valjean wasn’t stupid, his latest crimes had proved that. He’d surrender to the truth soon enough.

And until then… There _was_ satisfaction in wearing away at Valjean’s obduracy, little by little. Valjean might be smarter than Javert had assumed back in the hulks, going from simple theft to such a magnificent crime committed right beneath the eyes of the public—but Javert had been correct in that a man such as Valjean wouldn’t walk away from a life of crime. They never did.

***

In the morning, Javert awoke in a good mood. The sun was shining in through his window, painting patterns of gold on the blanket that covered him. When he rose, he found Valjean awake as well, looking at him from watchful, wary eyes.

In the hulks, Valjean wouldn’t have dared to meet his eyes—but Javert didn’t mind. On the contrary. There was a special satisfaction in how unsettled Valjean was, which just proved that Javert had been right about that as well: in a place like Toulon, among hundreds of convicts, Valjean could slip easily into his old habits and hatch plans for escape and further crimes. But now that Javert had made him his personal responsibility, Valjean would have no chance to hide amongst others of his kind.

Valjean might have grasped at this opportunity because it seemed like an easier sentence—but Javert was going to make certain that it wasn’t.

He unshackled Valjean, then motioned for him to rise.

“It’s about time you made yourself more useful,” he said, nodding at the washbasin and the pitcher of water. “Wash me.”

Once more Valjean gave him one of those wary looks that now were no longer hidden behind unruly hair. At last, he bent his head in acquiescence.

Javert stepped in front of the washbasin. The sunlight that fell in pooled on the floor here, warming his bare skin. Valjean had slipped on his shirt again before Javert had chained him last night. Now, he hesitated a moment, his face heating when his eyes met Javert’s as if by accident. Then he quickly lowered his gaze again to pour water, wetting the cloth.

Javert felt his lips twitching. Valjean, shy—after nineteen years in the hulks, used to way worse than what Javert had demanded so far? The thought was enough to make him laugh. Even so, if this was another game Valjean was playing, it made no sense—surely even Valjean wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he could trick Javert into compassion for a recidivist with such a ridiculous display?

Maybe the truth was simply that Javert had succeeded in unsettling Valjean. The man knew life in the hulks—but here, with no chain to drag and no red blouse, perhaps he was indeed out of his depth.

It was explanation enough for now, Javert decided, distracted by the way Valjean’s eyes briefly flickered up to his again before Valjean pressed the wet cloth to his chest.

The water was tepid, the sun having warmed the pewter for an hour already before he’d risen. It was a welcome reprieve from the icy water of the winter months, even though the pay had been more than generous for an inspector in a small, provincial town like Montreuil, and Javert had been able to afford a fire every day. Lazily, Javert wondered whether that had been part of Madeleine’s plan too—the money spent on doctors and hospital beds had been to take in the town’s electors, and the money spent on the police might just have sufficed to cause any other man sent here by the prefecture to look the other way. Who’d want to question a mayor as generous as this, when in any other town, he’d barely make enough to afford food and rent—without even the luxury of a fire through all the winter months, a generous apartment, and a finer horse than that of the chief inspector in Paris?

Valjean took up the lavender-scented ball of fine Marseille soap—another luxury paid for with Valjean’s coin. The thought made Javert smile while Valjean worked up a lather before returning once more to his work, the cloth sliding gently over Javert’s skin. Even though Valjean kept his eyes averted, his apprehension still betrayed by the flush on his cheeks, he worked slowly and meticulously, raising Javert’s arms so that he could wash beneath them, then sliding the cloth all the way down to Javert’s wrists.

Finally Valjean dropped to his knees again. Beginning at Javert’s ankles, he made his way upward just as slowly. There was a heartbeat of hesitation—but then Valjean worked the soapy cloth between Javert’s legs, washing the coarse curls at the root of his shaft as well as the length itself with hesitant fingers, carefully wiping the cloth over his testicles as well. Javert’s prick gave an interested jolt at the sensation, and Valjean at last gave himself away, freezing for just a moment before he continued his work.

Idly, Javert watched, intrigued by the way their closeness seemed to affect Valjean despite the man’s long years of experience with such things. But then, in the hulks, everything would have happened on Valjean’s terms. Who had been chained next to Valjean in those years he’d been adjutant-guard? He couldn’t remember, but he didn’t doubt that given his strength, Valjean’s nights had been pleasant enough back then.

Was that why Valjean was so jumpy? Because in the hulks, he’d always found a willing mouth—but he’d never been forced to use his mouth on another?

There was something amusing to the idea that a man could come out of the hulks after nineteen years, quailing at the sight of a hard cock in his face.

Or perhaps the following years had spoiled Valjean. Perhaps he’d found such satisfaction from playing the mayor that he’d come to believe that he did indeed belong among the town’s electors.

Well, the past two nights had proved that even someone as cleverly disguised at Valjean couldn’t leave the tastes of the hulks behind.

Valjean remained carefully silent, making certain not to touch Javert except for the touch of the cloth. Javert looked out of the window, where the sun now gleamed on the shingles of the roof on the other side of the street. Meanwhile Valjean soaped his back, then moved back to the washbasin to rinse the cloth. Next, Valjean began to wash the suds from his body—and once more he hesitated for a brief moment before he washed Javert’s cock, which was still half-hard.

It was early yet, Javert decided, glancing at the window again. Even the water-carrier hadn’t yet started on his round through the streets.

He waited until Valjean had finished drying his body before he stepped back, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The old shirt was clinging to Valjean’s broad frame, the cotton worn so thin that it was translucent where the sun hit it, the sleeves damp from the water.

Valjean stood quietly in the spot of sunlight Javert had deserted. Even the rough convict’s crop didn’t distract from the powerful lines of his body and the memory of feeling him arch in surrender to him.

When Valjean reluctantly raised his head to meet his gaze, his eyes were dark and hesitant, reminding Javert of those of a wild animal.

He’d cried, hadn’t he, that first night he’d given himself over to Javert. What a strange thing for a convict…

Javert leaned back and allowed his legs to spread. He could see Valjean swallow when his eyes flickered down to where Javert’s cock was throbbing with renewed interest.

Javert smiled. “So what are you going to do about that?”

Valjean’s lips parted. He raised his eyes to Javert again—and this time, he didn’t look away when he finally stepped closer.

“Do you want—” Valjean began, but apparently couldn’t make himself finish the thought, hesitating in front of Javert as if even now, something kept him from going to his knees.

Javert felt his smile widen. He’d have him, sooner or later. It would be all the sweeter then for the way Valjean still fought against the reins and spurs.

“Your hand will do,” he said lazily, nodding to the spot next to him.

Valjean took a deep breath before he sat down by his side. He rested his hand on Javert’s thigh, then slid it upward, his fingers curling around Javert’s prick.

Slowly, he stroked him, once, twice, then raised his eyes to Javert again. “Like that... Sir?”

Javert reached down, curling his own fingers around Valjean’s. Valjean froze for a heartbeat, but didn’t pull away. They were so close that Javert could hear Valjean’s ragged breath.

He tightened his fingers until Valjean’s had to follow suit, a satisfied moan escaping Javert when together, they stroked upwards.

“Like that,” he murmured.

Valjean’s head was tilted down, his wide, dark eyes staring at their hands. Javert reached out with his other hand, tilting up his chin. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against the corner of Valjean’s mouth until he exhaled nervously again. Then Javert slid his hand around to rest it against Valjean’s nape, holding him in place as he pressed his lips to Valjean’s.

Once again, a soft sound escaped Valjean when Javert slid his tongue into his mouth. Beneath his hand, Valjean’s fingers had frozen. After a moment, they resumed their work, and Javert released Valjean’s hand to grasp hold of his head with both hands, savoring the wet slide of his tongue against Valjean’s.

Valjean’s obedience was nearly as satisfying as the tight grip of his fingers. Javert rubbed his thumb against the lips that had parted for him, keeping his hands on Valjean’s face even when he found relief at last, with a satisfied moan. When he at last pulled away, Valjean’s lips were wet and bruised-looking—as were his eyes.

Javert couldn’t keep himself from reaching out again. Slowly, he traced the pad of his thumb along the vulnerable skin beneath Valjean’s eye. Valjean suffered his touch quietly, watching him with eyes that were wide, almost shocked—only what was there in this room that would shock a man like Valjean, after uncounted nights in the hulks?

Javert wondered all of a sudden whether Valjean had formed a lasting attachment there. These things happened, sometimes; even the most hardened of criminals could form such a strange bond with a new arrival who had pretty eyes or a soft, red mouth. Had the sight of the three convicts in Arras stirred up old feelings?

And yet, Valjean hadn’t asked for news from the hulks.

Javert allowed his hand to trail downward. His thumb stroked Valjean’s lips again, which were slick with his own saliva. Valjean’s eyes were still resting on his, his breath coming fast—and he was still watching him with that shocked caution, as if Javert was just as unsettling to him as Valjean was to Javert.

What a strange man Valjean was, Javert caught himself thinking, then frowned at his own thoughts and dropped his hand.

What did it matter whether Valjean was pining for some youth in the hulks? He’d get over it. In any case, there was work to be done—and soon enough, Valjean would be back where he belonged, doing hard labor in the full sight of the town he had wronged. There was nothing shocking about that at all, no matter how skittish Valjean might pretend to be.


	10. Chapter 10

Valjean tried to keep his mind blank as he began to serve Javert his breakfast of bread and cheese, accompanied by a cup of coffee and the cold remains of yesterday’s chicken. Javert, meanwhile, had dressed, and when he came to sit down at his table, seemed to exude an aura of confidence and satisfaction.

No wonder, Valjean thought bitterly. Javert had everything he’d ever wanted now. Moreover, he could rub Valjean’s face in his own degradation whenever he chose to. And yet, it could have been worse. 

In many ways, living right beneath Javert’s watchful gaze, spending his nights in his bedroom, was harder to bear than the hulks. Yet simultaneously, it was true that this was an easier life, despite the sacrifice of his body. Here, he was still in a position to do good. He couldn’t forget that. Even in the deepest degradation, there was a blessing to be found.

He poured Javert’s coffee while Javert leaned back in his chair, watching him with a smug smile. When Valjean had finished, Javert gestured dismissively to the ground next to his chair again. Valjean sank to his knees obediently, keeping his head carefully empty. He listened to the sounds of a knife scraping across a tin plate, staring at the pattern of the wooden planks beneath his knees. He had been hungry when he went to sleep yesterday; now, with the sounds of Javert eating his breakfast, his stomach clenched painfully.

In his youth, there had been worse days. So far, he had eaten every day—and of course, he could have simply demanded his share last night in the barracks. What had happened there was a simple test; the same had happened in the hulks. A show of Valjean’s strength—just once—and the men would have retreated, the women sullenly according him his share from now on.

Still, what did it matter? The others worked hard when he did not. Moreover, he couldn’t bear the thought of them looking at him in fear, thinking him a bestial convict who was not to be provoked.

He’d had long years of respect, and that respect had tasted sweet. Even now, he couldn’t help but feel the pain of its loss, every derisive glance at him like a sharp stab in his heart. To have that respect supplanted by the respect a convict was accorded for his strength or cruelty… The thought was so abhorrent that he could not bear it. He would rather hunger than be that man again, even though everyone thought him to be.

Again his stomach clenched, and he remembered the last winter with the family he could barely recall. The endless years in the hulks had burned all memories out of his mind. He no longer remembered their faces; no, not even that of his sister. And yet he still remembered the howling of the wind, the damp cold that crept into clothes and bones—and the ever-present hunger that sat inside his chest, a giant knot of despair and need and fury as his stomach clenched around nothing but emptiness.

Somewhere above him, Javert moved. Valjean nearly flinched back when a hand touched his head once more, but he forced himself to bear the sensation. Javert’s fingers trailed lightly across his cropped hair. Valjean could smell the scent of coffee and fresh bread. He swallowed heavily, then bent his head. Javert’s fingers trailed down to his nape, his touch light and unthreatening, but even so it made Valjean’s heart pound with instinctive panic.

A moment later, Javert’s hand withdrew. When it returned, it held something. Valjean didn’t even have to turn his head to know what it was.

He hesitated, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. Then, defeated, he turned his head, his heart aching with despair as he took the morsel of bread from Javert’s fingers with his lips.

Surely Javert had to be smiling once more now. Still, the bread was good, Valjean’s hunger only increasing at this first, teasingly small bite. A moment later, Javert’s hand withdrew, only to return with another piece of bread, and Valjean, who’d already sacrificed his dignity, after all, took this as well from his fingers.

What did it matter when Javert had already taken so much—let him have his dignity as well then.

As Javert continued to eat his breakfast, his hand would reach down every now and then, feeding Valjean more pieces of bread, interspersed with the occasional chunk of cheese. It seemed that Javert had found pleasure in owning a favoured pet, just as a lady might feed a small dog at her table. The truth of that image rested bitter on his tongue—but even so, today Valjean didn’t turn away, quietly accepting what was offered to him, and bearing the touch of Javert’s fingers tracing the bristly hair on his head every now and then.

Once more Javert’s hand reached down. Valjean did not realize what it held until his lips closed around the morsel. It was a generous chunk of the cold chicken—a treat they would not have received even for their Christmas meal in the hulks.

The piece of chicken was large, and Javert kept holding on to it, so that Valjean only registered belatedly that he’d taken not only the meat, but also Javert’s fingers into his mouth. He froze when his tongue touched warm skin instead of the cold chicken. Then Javert’s thumb swiped slowly along his bottom lip, and Valjean hesitantly let his tongue lick the grease from Javert’s fingers.

Valjean’s eyes burned when Javert pulled back. Valjean swallowed mechanically, his hands tightening into fists on his thighs. Was this what was to become of him?

And yet, he was here of his own, free choice. He could have chosen to go back to Toulon, where he would have been treated with the uncaring cruelty he was accustomed to.

It was he who had chosen to submit to this. Back in Arras, he had not known what Javert would ask of him, but still—had Valjean known, and had he been offered the same choice, he would have made it again.

After all, it was only for a year or two. What was that, to submit to Javert for a year, when it saved someone he had wronged?

But even so, when Javert finally allowed Valjean to rise and clean the table, he could not shake the despair that had taken hold of him. His soul had been bought, many years ago. Javert could have his body—but never his soul.

And yet, if that was true, then why had he given in, even though it had made something in his heart ache so?

***

“Healing well,” Javert said, carefully prodding his hand, taking care not to touch the burn. “I think you can join the others today. It’s about time you made yourself useful—at least useful in ways that’ll benefit the town.” He gave Valjean a knowing look, who suffered it quietly.

Once more Javert smoothed salve over the red circle, then tied a new bandage in place around it.

“In any case, you’re off dealing with the thicket of thorns near the path to the mill. No carrying rocks today for you. Shouldn’t be a problem, even with your hand.”

Valjean inclined his head.

Javert refused to release his hand. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said in a low voice. “Someone will keep an eye on you. And I might check on you lot occasionally as well. Don’t forget that. I’ve been lenient with you so far, but if you provoke me, it’ll be the lash for you again. Are we understood?”

Valjean swallowed down the rebellious reply that had first come to his tongue. “Yes, sir.”

Javert’s smile widened. “Good.”

Once more, Javert reached out to lightly trail his hands down the back of Valjean’s head while Valjean instinctively tensed in response, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Clenching his teeth, Valjean forced himself to bear the touch without rearing back, and after a moment, Javert at last released him and rose to start his day.

***

The thicket that grew on each side of the path that led towards the mills of Montreuil-sur-Mer had indeed grown unruly during the spring, tendrils creeping over the path. The small road was narrow, offering just enough space for one cart, and with the continued growth of the brambles, the farmers would have difficulties driving their harvest to the mills and returning with their flour.

“Good of you to join us,” one of the men said with an unfriendly look, while his wife grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

“Stay away from that one. Everyone says he’s dangerous,” she whispered.

Valjean pretended that he had not heard her words.

One of Javert’s agents had accompanied them to the area they were supposed to work on, and the other men had dragged a small cart with tools for their work.

It was easy enough to see what had to be done. In any case, it was needed work that served a purpose, both for the farmers and the mill-owners—and as Valjean had told Javert, he had been a pruner once. The work awaiting him was not unwelcome—on the contrary. A day spent out of Javert’s sight, with the sky above him, was a gift.

Without waiting for the others, Valjean took up a pair of heavy shears and set to work on where the brambles had completely taken over an opening by the side of the path. Without the thorns that blocked it, it offered just enough space that one cart could wait and let someone coming the other way pass by.

On the cart, he’d found old leather gloves to protect their hands from the worst of the thorns; even so, despite the bandage around his burned hand, it ached to grip the shears.

Valjean ignored the pain as he worked. In any case, he had known worse pain than this. The hand was healing; it would ache for another week, maybe, but Javert had been kind to spare him the heaviest work during the first few days. 

For the better part of two hours, Valjean worked silently, the sun warming his back. Soon, his shirt was soaked with sweat, sticking to his skin. It had not rained for several days, but the soil beneath the copse of thornbushes was still damp.

Every now and then, Valjean stopped to wipe his face, watching the others cutting brambles further down the road while the women piled the cuttings onto the cart, then dragging it away to empty it where the road opened onto fields.

Javert’s agent had lingered for a while, his eyes suspiciously following Valjean, but eventually he had left—although not without further admonitions.

The others were trusted to do their work on their own, with only occasional checks by the police. And of course, they had all signed themselves over into this indenture willingly—were they to run from it, a far worse fate awaited them.

Valjean’s case was different. Everyone seemed to think that he had been given an easy way out of the hulks. And of course, any other man would have run. The man Valjean had been nineteen years ago would have escaped that very first night without a second thought.

But it was true that even for him, it would be hard to run. Everyone knew him around here, and if there were ex-convicts willing to hide a man like him or furnish him with a disguise, he did not know them. 

Valjean had done his utmost to avoid all suspicion, treating those who were forced to come and present their yellow passport to him with the politeness he himself had once so sorely missed, but carefully suppressing any outward show of sympathy. To be found out to have exchanged friendly words with a former convict might have been his end—or so Valjean had feared during those years when his disguise had felt like a threadbare shirt through which surely the outlines of his old scars were still visible.

Around noon one of Javert’s men returned, inspecting the work they had done so far and dropping a satchel containing dark bread, cheese, and a handful of wizened apples onto the empty cart. Under the cold eyes of the agent, Valjean as well took his share of the food, then retreated to the other side of the path, where he’d uncovered a rock beneath the brambles which, freed from the thorns, now served as a seat.

Just when the man had left again and Valjean had followed the others further down the path to where a a rivulet was flowing nearby to quench their thirst, the sound of a rider approaching could be heard.

Thinking that it was the agent yet again—or perhaps Javert coming to check on him—Valjean followed the others back to their cart without haste, only to see to his great surprise that it was Robert who was slowly coming towards them.

The others sullenly made way for him, eyes averted, ignoring Robert’s greeting—but instead of continuing on the path down to the mills, of which Robert owned two, he chose to stop and descend.

“Good day to you, sir,” he said cheerfully, pulling off his riding gloves before holding out his hand to Valjean. “A lovely day, is it not?”

Valjean eyed Robert’s hand. His own was covered in dirt and dust, despite the gloves he had worn. He did not take it.

Nevertheless, Robert was not deterred by it. “How are you doing?” Robert asked in a gentler voice.

Valjean swallowed, his eyes going to the other indentured servants, who were watching with various degrees of curiosity and suspicion.

“I recall there was a stream nearby. My horse needs watering. Will you lead me to it?”

Valjean exhaled tiredly, then inclined his head. He knew he should have rebuffed Robert’s offer of continued friendship, but a part of him was deeply exhausted after the days with Javert, who had whittled away at what dignity he still possessed. And perhaps this was for the best. Out of earshot of the others, away from the suspicious eyes of the people of Montreuil, he could talk openly and make Robert understand that he needed to stay away from him.

“So how are you? How are you really?” Robert asked as soon as they’d left the others behind, the false cheerfulness gone.

Valjean swallowed, unexpectedly moved to hear himself addressed as _vous_ still, and by this man to whom he had lied for so long.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Valjean sad roughly, “least of all your concern. I lied to you.”

Robert shrugged. “You weren’t much when you came to this town. Père Madeleine with his old clothes, dusty from the road, who knew neither how to ride a horse nor how to run a business. I watched you all these years. I always knew you weren’t one of the idlers who sit in the officers’ café all day, laughing at the women parading outside. You only had a little when you came here, but you were determined to use it, right from the start. And not only that—to use all your success for good. So don’t tell me I don’t know you, Valjean. Madeleine or Valjean, it makes no difference—I know you better than anyone here, I think. Better than Javert.”

Valjean stopped, helplessly raising a hand to his suddenly burning eyes. After the depths of degradation he had fallen into in Javert’s bed, to hear Robert now talk so kindly seemed nearly more than he could bear.

After a moment, Robert’s horse began to pull impatiently on the reins, and Valjean released them when he saw that they had nearly made it to the stream.

The animal took two steps forward, then thrust its nose into the water with a satisfied snort. Valjean watched it drink deeply, too embarrassed to meet Robert’s eyes.

“I’ve been thinking of a way to help,” Robert said slowly. “Javert’s a problem, of course, but we all know that he has higher aspirations than ending his career in our town. He’s eager to go to Paris. But who knows how long that will take. Perhaps a legal way could be found to at least transfer his power over you to another…”

“You can’t,” Valjean said sharply, reaching out to grab Robert’s hands, the dirt on his own fingers forgotten for a moment. “Promise me you won’t. With me gone, you have a good chance to be suggested as my successor. There’s already a mark on you now; people know we were friendly. You can’t throw that chance away. Think of the good you could do for this town.”

Robert frowned and shook his head, although he didn’t pull his hand from Valjean’s grasp. “I couldn’t,” he said. “I’ve never wanted it; you know that. I don’t care for the politics of—”

“Ah, but for a man who does not care for such things, you ran a fine campaign for me.” There was a faint smile on Valjean’s face as he remembered Robert’s enthusiasm. “You’d do well, Robert. I know you would.”

“You know, all these years, I wondered about you. I’ve considered you a friend, but there was so much you kept private. A man has a right to his secrets, of course, and those who keep them often have a reason for that. I didn’t want to ask for what you obviously were not willing to share…”

Valjean released Robert’s hand, averting his eyes in shame. “Now you know why.”

“Yes,” Robert agreed calmly. “And I understand why you preferred your solitude.”

“After all you know about me, you still want me to be your friend?” Valjean asked in despair. “I stole from a child! I spent nineteen years in the hulks!”

“And for as long as I’ve known you, your pockets were full of coin for every hungry child in this town. And every time a little Savoyard came to the town, you asked if his name was Petit-Gervais, and sent him away with a five franc piece.” Robert gazed at him levelly. “These things I know about you, Jean Valjean. These are the actions of a man I was proud to call friend.”

“Then you believe redemption is possible even for a man like me?”

“How could I not, with you before me?”

Valjean shuddered at that pronouncement, clenching his burned hand. “If you knew… The things I’ve said, the things I’ve thought… And Fantine, I sent her away—out of selfish fear, even though I knew she had a child.”

“The tale made the rounds in the town as well,” Robert said. “It sounded different then. I thought it was not like you to send a woman away—but when Madame Victurnien told us that Fantine had abandoned her child, refusing to send money to see her fed and clothed, I understood.”

“When I stole,” Valjean murmured hoarsely, “a long time ago, it was just some bread. My nieces and nephews… It was winter, and we were starving…”

Robert stepped closer and rested his hand on his shoulder. “Yes. I thought it had to be something like that.”

Ashamed, Valjean shook his head. “You don’t understand. After that, after the hulks, I stole from a child. I’ve spent so many years trying to make up for it, and yet, when God gave me a chance to save Fantine and her child, my selfishness won. This is the man I am, Robert. This is what I am. I was never worthy of your friendship. And if you continue searching me out, your reputation will suffer worse than it already has.”

“Yes,” Robert mused slowly, “that will be a problem.”

Even though it was he who had suggested it, Valjean felt a sting in his heart at losing the only man who still looked at him with respect in his eyes.

“If the town suggests me as your successor to the king,” Robert said, “I would be the one in charge of you and Fantine. With Fantine, it’s easy; it’s simply a matter of money, since her crime was debt. With you, it will be more difficult. Still, it would be within my power then to, say, send you to labor on one of the farms I own. I could buy some small estate and send you to work there. You’d owe me nothing, my friend. The farm would be a gift to you—only officially, it would be mine, and you’d run it in my name. Or, if you prefer, I could find some reason to send you to do work for me in Paris…”

Valjean didn’t know what to say. The offer overwhelmed him. After the nights in Javert’s apartment, after having known himself utterly defeated, it seemed impossible that he should be allowed to lead a life without chains again, to be his own master, to rise and sleep and eat when he wanted, to never feel unkind hands touch him again.

Then Valjean smiled, slowly and sadly. “It’s impossible. Your reputation would never recover. You could go far—”

“I don’t want to go far,” Robert said with sudden passion. “Here, in this town, I had everything I ever wanted. I was the sole heir of my family’s business, with a nephew who is a bright, good lad who might one day step into my shoes, and with—with you to be my friend…”

There was a sadness in the way Robert looked at him that Valjean hadn’t seen before. Or rather, he thought suddenly, could it be that he had never taken notice of it before?

Could it be that Robert…?

The thought was unsettling in a way Valjean couldn’t explain, as if Javert had found a way to taint even the single, fragile friendship he’d managed to find in his life.

He had been silent too long, he realized all of a sudden. Robert’s face fell, and before his friend could turn away, Valjean found himself taking a step forward, gripping his shoulder.

Robert was nothing like Javert. He’d never been. Robert had been Valjean’s friend, a patient, quiet man who was capable of sudden outbursts of action and passion if something aroused his interest: a new development in the sciences, a new book, Valjean’s projects of charity, and indeed his idea to have Madeleine’s name put forth for the appointment as mayor. Valjean did not doubt that Robert, too, had been behind the offer of the Legion of Honor.

“Your friendship meant more than you can ever know,” Valjean said, choking on the words. “But you must take care of yourself now. You can’t be seen with me. I refuse to be your downfall. Goodbye, Robert.”


	11. Chapter 11

The palomino was restless, his golden head appearing above his door as soon as Javert entered the stable. His ears pointing forward, he snorted, his hoof hitting wood as he pawed at the door.

“Easy,” Javert said, holding out his hand. The beast snorted again, but then trustfully lowered his head to search Javert’s palm with his lips. Once more, Javert ran an admiring hand down his arched neck, feeling powerful muscles flex beneath the shining fur.

“You want to go outside? Why not. You need to run, and I need to check on your former master.”

There was something rather appealing to the notion of riding up to Valjean seated on his former steed—the finest horse in the department.

“You know,” he told the golden gelding in a low voice, “if it were my choice, I’d keep you as I keep him. You’d be a lot less trouble, for one thing. You do what you were bred to do, and you do it gladly. No need for the whip. He, on the other hand…”

For a moment, Javert thought of the broad back again, marked by the whip, those strong haunches, the firm, round buttocks, and had to swallow as he imagined trailing a riding crop over them.

“Well, in any case, he’d deserve it, whereas you don’t need it.”

The gelding lightly butted his chest, and Javert laughed.

“I see we are agreed in that.”

Half an hour later, the steed was racing along the path between the fields to the north of the town, his mane and tail fluttering in the wind like a standard of pale gold, as fast as Javert’s own horse, and tireless.

There was, unfortunately, no way Javert could afford to purchase him for himself. Especially not if M. Robert was set on bidding against him.

Still, for as long as the investigations continued, the horse would remain in his possession. And who knew. Perhaps, if Paris were to desire to reward him—giving a horse the state had spent no coin on was a far likelier outcome than the promotion to the Prefecture itself that he desired.

Today, the group of indentured servants been sent to mend a path that stretched to the north of the town. It ran past the Canche, where last year’s rainy autumn and severe winter had loosened stones, which had at last come sliding down in the spring, making the passage more difficult for travelers and threatening further mudslides during the coming autumn.

Javert slowed the horse to a walk when he came upon the group, taking note of how Valjean was working by himself with apparently no eyes for what was happening around him. Valjean was using a pickaxe on the largest boulders that had come down before carrying the smaller rocks they split into towards a pile by the side of a rivulet, which flowed on the other side of the path.

Further ahead, where Valjean must have already cleared away the heavier rocks, men and women were digging, little by little liberating the path from the muddy soil that had come down together with the rocks.

Valjean was dirty, his blouse and trousers the same muddy brown as his hands. When he paused for a moment, setting the pickax aside to wipe tiredly at his face and leaving another smudge of mud on the face that had once stared at him so impertinently across the mayor’s desk, Javert nudged the gelding’s side and rode up to him.

Valjean looked up, alerted no doubt by the sound of hoofbeats. Javert could see the moment realization hit him—but even though his eyes widened and his mouth tightened, Valjean remained silent, taking off his brimmed cap when Javert halted the horse in front of him.

The Spanish gelding snorted and shook his head as if pleased by the run they’d had, then stretched his head to curiously nuzzle at Valjean’s muddied hand.

“Doré,” Valjean murmured, then added in apology, “I have nothing for you.”

Hesitantly, he reached out to run his hand down the gelding’s elegant head, then gave Javert a cautious look.

“You’re dirty,” Javert said.

Valjean was silent for a moment, while Javert realized that his words made no sense. Of course Valjean was dirty.

“Do you want me to wash, sir?” Valjean asked at last, still cautious.

Javert shook his head, suddenly angry at himself. The gelding pointed his ears backward, muscles bunching beneath him as the beast pawed at the ground, and Javert forced himself to loosen his grip on the reins until the horse calmed again.

Javert scoffed. “You’re here to work. You’ll wash when you’re done. I won’t have you dragging your dirt into my rooms.”

Valjean inclined his head in assent, although his face seemed to have reddened.

Still annoyed at himself for some reason he could not name, Javert let his eyes sweep along the path. He’d allocated them to this task for the week; only three days left, which meant they should be past the halfway point now.

He narrowed his eyes at where the other workers were watching him from a distance, further ahead—or rather, behind Valjean, who, it seemed, went first. Surely it was not unreasonable to expect four people to hold pace with a single man, especially when that man did the heaviest work?

Out of the lot of them, he’d expected Valjean to cause trouble. Now, he threw his reins at Valjean before he dismounted, straightening his coat and making certain that his pistols where in reach before he nodded at the path.

“Walk me through your work.”

Again Valjean gave him a look of wary surprise, as if he were the one who had to fear a trap. Nevertheless, he did as commanded, wiping at the sweat and dried mud on his face as he led Javert past the part he had already cleared from the large boulders. Given the hours still left in the day, Valjean might make it to where a willow grew on the other side of the path by the rivulet—not where Javert had expected them to be by this point in the week. But then, he had also assumed that the work would be shared, with at least another man to help Valjean with the task of rock-breaking.

For Valjean to work alone, he could find no fault in his work—indeed, he was faster than Javert would have assumed from a man doing that work on his own.

That, at least, was as it should be. Valjean was used to the back-breaking labor of the hulks, and his strength had not left him even after all those soft years as mayor. One could not forget that this labor was a punishment, and thus Valjean’s work was not something he should be commended for, but simply a part of the reparations he owed the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Still, even if Valjean did the work he was tasked with, others did not, and Javert, who had not expected rebellion from this quarter, felt his jaw tighten as they came upon the group of workers who’d abandoned their labor at his approach.

“Well?” he demanded. “Don’t just stare at me. I expected to see progress—the path should be clear up to that willow over there by now. If you think that you can sit idle as soon as my back is turned, this won’t end well for you. If this road isn’t clear by Saturday, I’ll have you work Sunday too.”

“That’s not fair,” one of the women cried—Fantine, who’d before thought she could dupe him with her woeful tales of a child without father. No, it was no surprise at all that it should come to this. He shouldn’t have expected better from a group of thieves and immoral women.

“We work as hard as we can—it’s not possible to go faster when there is so much—”

Javert took a step forward, staring at Fantine who refused to back away, her eyes blazing even though her cheeks were flecked with mud as well, and the shawl that covered her hair turned brown with dirt and dust.

“Is that so?” he said pleasantly. “And why is it then that one single man, doing the hardest work, is so much faster than four of you, doing the easier task of cleaning up after him?”

“Easy? Ha!” the second woman cried, turning to glare at Valjean. “If his task’s really that hard, then why is he so fast?”

“He’s claimed the easy task for himself, just to make us look bad,” her husband added.

“If you think that shoveling this mud is so easy, why don’t you try it yourself,” Fantine spat, then whirled around again to point a furious finger at Valjean. “Better yet, let _him_ try it and see for yourself just how slow he’ll be.”

Javert chuckled, entertained by her fury. Here, at least, was one person who’d seen through the false mayor’s mask of piety and charity long before the other inhabitants of the town. There was no love lost between them—a fact, he had to admit, that amused him, especially given how it was Valjean who had pretended to act out of charity in Arras to save this woman’s child.

Of course, it had always been obvious that Valjean had seen a way to escape the hulks by offering himself up to indenture. Still, that made no difference, for the result was the same: Valjean was where he belonged, doing hard labor, right beneath Javert’s eyes.

“I think not,” he said slowly, enjoying this little altercation.

It was rewarding, in a way, that he’d been right about one thing. Tear Valjean’s mask away, and he was no longer the charitable, kind man beloved by all who met him. These men and women who came from that same place of criminality and ill morals that had bred Valjean knew well enough that he was one of their own and treated him accordingly. More surprising, perhaps, was that this should affect Valjean so. Given his strength and notoriety and his past in the hulks, Valjean should have ruled over this little band of petty criminals. And yet, here he was, remaining silent in the face of their accusations.

Even more intriguing, he seemed to be affected by their words, for his face had paled now and he was staring at the ground.

Strange that he did not assert himself. For what reason? Perhaps Valjean believed that to let one of the other men take the lead would draw attention away from himself. A plan that made a certain sense, Javert had to admit, although so far, Valjean had appeared unassuming, quiet and obedient in Javert’s quarters for the most part, and unexpectedly responsive in his bed. Surely Valjean did not think that Javert could be fooled into believing the other men to be more dangerous than Jean Valjean, a man from the hulks?

Contrary to what he’d once believed, Valjean wasn’t stupid. Short-sighted, yes, and arrogant—after all, he’d continued to taunt Javert from his office, rather than finding one of the myriad reasons that could have been used to sack a man of Javert’s background from his post, and such a well-paid one at that that it would have been no problem at all to quickly find a less dangerous successor.

“If you think that his work is so easy,” Javert declared, still smiling at the group of workers, “then it seems there’s a change in order.”

He let his eyes trail over them, staring at each dirty, tired face until they averted their eyes, one by one. Only Fantine, at the end of the line, kept glaring at him—no doubt used to getting away with the coquettish ways of young women. She’d learn soon enough that her wiles wouldn’t work on him.

“You,” he said at last with deep satisfaction. “Why don’t you swing the pickax for the rest of the day, Fantine Thibault? Shouldn’t be a problem for you to clear the path up to that willow, since this is the easiest part of your work. Isn’t that right? And if you’re not done by the time one of my men comes for you, you’ll stay out here until nightfall.”

“There is no need for that,” Valjean said to his right.

“You will be silent unless asked a question.” Javert kept his eyes on Fantine, who was still staring at him as if she longed to jump at him and bury her nails in his face.

Well, let her try. Javert had always known that sooner or later, someone in this little group of thieves and criminals would rebel—he’d just thought that it would be Valjean instead of the pretty woman of the group.

“Sir, I can break the rocks and help with the—”

Furiously, Javert whirled around at Valjean’s repeated interruption, and Valjean fell silent at his glare.

“Did you not hear me?” Javert snapped. “You will be silent, Jean Valjean, or you will regret it. Now, Fantine Thibault, take up that pickax. Break that rock over there. And do it fast, or there will be no dinner for any of you tonight.”

At that pronouncement, the other men began to mutter to each other in low voices, although they, too, fell silent when Javert turned his eyes on them.

Fantine meanwhile, still glaring at him with the fury of a trapped cat, clenched her jaw and went right up to Valjean, snatching the pickax from his hands without a single word.

Javert’s lips twitched as she couldn’t quite suppress a shocked gasp at the weight of it—but instead of admitting her error and begging for his forgiveness, she gritted her teeth and dragged it with her to the large boulder Javert had pointed at.

Javert’s smile widened as he watched her try to raise the pickax. She’d clearly never used such an object before. Well, that was only too likely—she’d claimed to be a seamstress, and given that she’d hidden a child away, had surely earned some money on the side, as such pretty women were wont to do.

Javert was almost impressed that she was either furious or obstinate enough to raise the tool to the height of her head, then let it come down on the rock.

Instead of breaking the rock, the pickax rebounded and flew from her slender fingers.

Javert chuckled at the sound of fury that escaped her. Still, instead of returning to tearfully apologize to him, as was to be expected from women like her, she went to retrieve the tool, then raised it again with shaking arms, gripping it so tightly that her fingers turned white.

This time, she managed to hold onto it when it came down. Instead of splitting the rock, it glanced off the boulder and ended up buried in the soil next to it.

“Well? Go on,” Javert said with an pointed look at the sun. “Only a few hours left. I want this path cleared up to the willow. There’s no time for your dawdling.”

Fantine did not even bother to disguise the hate in her eyes as she glared at him, then tried to lift the pickax again. She was tiring, Javert thought; her arms were beginning to tremble. He was almost amused to see her game last so long.

“That’s enough,” Valjean said sharply when she lifted the pickax, only for the tool to slip from her hands. “There’s no need to torment her.”

“You _will_ be silent, Jean Valjean,” Javert said furiously, taking a step forward.

“Let her be.” Valjean refused to budge, still staring at him, his chest heaving when Javert reached out to grip the front of his blouse.

Javert exhaled, feeling excitement unfurl inside him. Here it came at last, the event he’d known would happen all along: Valjean pulling at the chain, his true nature unleashed, which he’d hidden so carefully behind the mask of the kind mayor for so long.

“Truly?” Javert allowed his lips to curl with distaste. “You want the lash for some whore?”

Behind him, he heard the furious sound Fantine made, but he disregarded her—for in front of him, Valjean’s face had heated, the eyes that had so often been carefully averted in simulated surrender now blazing at him with rage.

“Her name is Fantine!”

Valjean had raised his voice so that the final word came out as a furious cry, and Javert, who’d gripped Valjean’s blouse all this time, felt the strong body tremble with barely contained emotion.

“That was the last time you ever raised your voice at me.” Javert tightened his hand to pull Valjean even closer, then pushed him back as hard as he could.

Valjean seemed taken by surprise by his action, stumbling backwards a few steps, then caught himself just in time before he could trip over one of the rocks. Gritting his teeth, Javert took a few steps towards the rivulet by the other side of the path. With one jump, he crossed it, then strode towards a tree that stood there.

Without speaking a word, Javert drew a knife from his pocket. He gripped the first green branch that looked sturdy enough for his purpose and cut it off. It had a pleasant weight to it; when he tested it, it cut through the air with a promising hiss.

It would do. For now, it would do.


	12. Chapter 12

Before he could gather his thoughts, Valjean found himself gripped by the collar of his blouse and shoved against one of those large boulders that had come down together with the mud from the steep incline that bordered the other side of the path. This rock still leaned upright against the incline, coming up to Valjean’s chest. Tall as it was, it was flat enough that Valjean might have broken it with a few well-aimed hits with the pickax.

Now, instead, he was forced against it—the switch in Javert’s hand making it only too clear what was to come. Heat rushed to Valjean’s face when he realized belatedly that the other men and women would serve as their audience. 

Javert lost no time. With one hand, he opened two of the buttons that held Valjean’s trousers closed, then impatiently yanked them down. Next, he shoved Valjean’s tattered shirttails out of the way. Valjean shivered at the sensation of cold air against bared flesh—bared not only to the elements and Javert’s merciless hand, but also to the eyes of the men and women who had labored beside him.

With his heart pounding in his chest, he contemplated begging Javert for the mercy of having this done with in private—but in his heart he knew that Javert wouldn’t grant such a request. What, after all, were the sensibilities of a convict?

He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the inevitable, his hands holding on to the rock. Then the switch came down for the first time, painting a line of fire across his buttocks.

The suddenness of it was enough to tear a gasp from his throat. Even now, despite the shock of it, he knew that Javert was letting him off with an easy punishment—a punishment that would bruise little more than his pride. To be disciplined like a child, even though it happened at the iron hand of Javert, surely was nothing to someone who’d known the agony of the hulks.

And yet, to be chastised so in front of witnesses, unmasked in front of these women for what he truly was in Javert’s eyes—a whim, a toy to torment, of no more consequence to Javert than a little dog on a lady’s lap, to be fed treats at his table one day only to feel the cane the next…

Again the switch came down. The springy wood landed with skill and efficiency, bruising tender skin this time: the backside of his thighs, which had been spared the bite of the whip those many years ago.

Valjean tightened his fingers around the rock that bore his weight, gasping for breath as he choked back a groan. The next time, Javert aimed the switch at his buttocks again, and Valjean winced when he swiftly followed it with another blow. This was nothing like the brutal whippings he’d known—but even so, the pain was real, the hot, burning impact of each sharp blow driving tears to his eyes.

Something in his chest felt tight and heavy. There was pressure building behind his eyes. He had trouble breathing, his throat closing around something that he tried to swallow down, again and again, as the blows kept raining down onto his defenseless skin.

“I have warned you,” Javert said, breathing heavily as he paused for a moment. “I told you what I expect from you: the respect due to a man of my station. You, a convict, to raise your voice at _me_ , the chief of police of this fine town? You’ve given yourself airs, Valjean. I think you’ve come to believe in your own little game. But I know the truth of what you are, and by God, I’ll teach you, no matter what it takes.”

Another blow followed that declaration, Javert delivering his punishment with renewed vigor. The next blow, falling upon the tender crease of where Valjean’s buttocks met his thighs, and which was already lined with red welts, forced a choked sob from him. 

Javert continued until Valjean’s backside was on fire, his thighs smarting, the thing inside Valjean’s chest grown so heavy that he thought he’d choke on it.

The next time Javert paused, Valjean could feel a finger grazing a red-hot welt, lingering as Valjean trembled.

“And do you think you’ve had enough now?” Javert demanded. “Or do you still think you can shout at me?”

There was something frighteningly familiar in the roughness in Javert’s voice—a trace of the hunger Valjean had to come to know well, and which he could now also feel in the hand that curled around his thigh, the thumb that stroked a burning welt with the same covetousness with which Valjean had seen Javert caress his Spanish gelding.

“No, sir,” he said, choking on the words.

Javert turned him around.

“Then pull up your clothes and get back to work,” Javert murmured. “And tonight, perhaps we shall have another conversation about your manners.”

Valjean swallowed thickly, his eyes still burning with unshed tears. Hastily, he pulled up his trousers, only his shirt preserving his modesty in from of their audience.

“I’m not an animal to break—”

Javert exhaled in amusement. He dropped the switch to grab hold of Valjean’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Are you not?” Therewas a smile on Javert's lips. “Your horse, Jean Valjean, is a beast without reason, and yet it obeys readily—eagerly even—willingly submitting to the bit and the spurs. It takes a lump of sugar from my hand, it comes when it is called, and will run for hours for no reward but a word of praise. For all of its efforts, it is housed and fed. It doesn’t fight the reins, it submits itself willingly to my mastery—and yet, do we not call it a noble beast? Look at it, Valjean. Is it not true that this is the finest, proudest horse in the entire department?”

His eyes still burning, Valjean turned his head towards where they had left Doré. The Spanish gelding had grazed on the narrow strip of grass that grew between the path and the rivulet. Now he raised his head, his ears curiously coming forward, his proud neck arching—as graceful as a statue of Bucephalus, a horse fit to carry a general into battle.

“Is that what you want me to be?”

Javert watched him without answering, but in the rapid rhythm of his breathing and the heat of his gaze, Valjean could see that his punishment had stirred something within Javert.

Valjean gritted his teeth, his buttocks and thighs still smarting. “Yes. That’s what I am to you.” 

His words got him a low laugh in response.

“No. That’s not what you are—but what you might one day be. For all your fine promises, Jean Valjean, you can’t help your nature, can you? But I’ll yet see you tamed. Whether it is with lumps of sugar or the whip—well, that is your own choice. But you’d do well to remember your promises. You’re quick to beg, to promise, to swear all sorts of things to save some miserable creature. But when the time comes to pay, where are your promises then?”

For a moment, Valjean felt anger rise up in him again, heat coloring his words. “I went to your bed willingly these many days, did I not?”

Javert’s smile widened, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“Careful,” he warned in an intimate murmur, stepping even closer to grip the collar of Valjean’s shirt. “I know it’ll take a long time to beat this lesson into you, but all the same, it won’t do to aggravate me needlessly. It’s the switch today; it need not be the whip tomorrow.”

Panting, Valjean stared into Javert’s merciless eyes—and then, little by little, knowing the futility of his struggle, he reined in the rage within him born of helpless despair. He drew in another deep breath, his chest aching to see the smile on Javert’s face widen knowingly. Then he bent his head, averting his eyes, which burned again with unshed tears as he thought of Fantine in his place.

“There, that’s better.” There was the rumble of approval in Javert’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” Valjean said hollowly. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Won’t it?” Javert said thoughtfully. “Well, we shall see. Now take up your pickax again and get back to work. I assume that little minx has learned her lesson by now—as you have. And tonight, I expect the service that is my due. It shouldn’t be a hardship, given just how willing you’ve been so far?”

“No, sir,” Valjean breathed around the heaviness still stuck in his throat.

His smile widening, Javert leaned in. “Welts or no, I intend to put you to use just as I do with that horse. And you’ll be just as biddable as that creature, won’t you, when I ride you hard?”

His face hot, Valjean nodded miserably. “Yes, sir.”

Even the pain of his punishment was forgotten when Javert at last stepped backward; the shame of having been disciplined in the full view of the others was too acute.

Waiting respectfully in the distance while Javert had shoved Valjean over to the large rock, they were certainly too far away to have overheard their conversation. And yet, did it truly need words to understand what he was to Javert?

In either case, all of them had seen Javert strip him, just as he had been observed during the nightmarish journey to Toulon long ago. He did not doubt that on their faces, he would have found the same cruel amusement he had seen then.

He did not meet their eyes when he returned to his work. Despite the constant, dull throb of pain that constantly reminded him of Javert’s mastery over him, he worked tirelessly, foregoing now any breaks when before, he had paused every now and then to drink from the rivulet and pour cold water over his neck. Instead of using the pickax to break the large boulders apart before moving on, he took hold of the splintered rocks and carried them to the pile the others had made.

By the time one of Javert’s men came in the evening, they had progressed—not as far as Javert had demanded of them, but if they managed to keep this pace for the remaining days, the work could be finished in time, Valjean thought.

One of the men gave Valjean a weary nod when he came to put down his pickax on the cart—Caillot the thief, while Fasquel and his wife still kept a wary distance from him.

When he hesitantly dared to raise his eyes to Fantine, he saw that her eyes were still blazing at him.

“Don’t think you can change my opinion of you,” she declared when he passed her. “It’s too late for that. I know men like you, trying to curry favor; well, I’ve seen enough of men. You’ve shown me what you are that day in the factory. This doesn’t change anything.”

Quietly, Valjean inclined his head. It was not, in any case, why he had thought to defend her; he knew well enough that every single misery that had befallen her since that day was his fault.

Just as quietly, he returned with the others to the barracks where he washed and dressed in clean clothes, ignoring the hot, swollen welts that made their presence known at every movement.

When he entered Javert’s apartment at last, he found Javert—his _master_ , he thought bitterly, just as he was Doré’s master now—seated at his desk, his coat already hung by the door, a glass of wine in Javert’s hand as he studied the letters before him.

Javert looked up and watched him for a moment, then nodded for Valjean to follow. They entered Javert’s bedroom, where the washbasin was prepared, and Valjean thought he understood. It was very early for Javert to retire—but then, it was not sleep that was on Javert’s mind certainly, not after his words about putting Valjean to use and the heat sparked in Javert’s blood by the punishment.

He reached out for Javert’s jacket, but Javert stalled his hand. Quietly, strangely nervous, Valjean watched as Javert’s fingers closed around his wrist, Javert watching him with unreadable eyes. A moment later, Javert’s other hand came up; Valjean hunched his shoulders, but submitted mutely when Javert’s fingers teased at his lips, allowing them to slide into his mouth where they rested on his tongue. Valjean could taste Javert; his skin was faintly salty, tasting clean, with a trace of the dusty papers he’d handled.

“There,” Javert murmured, his thumb stroking along Valjean’s jaw. “You know how to be good when you want to be. You’re not quite the brute you were in the hulks anymore. You’ve given yourself an education, they say; you’ve devoted yourself to charity; everyone in this town used to praise your name. Such a kind, generous, gentle man, this Père Madeleine. And here, in this bedroom, you’re as obedient as that magnificent beast you bought. But that’s not the entire truth. We both know the true nature that was always hidden behind your acts, and today, it has come out, as we both knew it would. But I tell you this, Valjean: I’ll crush that rebellious spirit. I’ll have you as obedient as that gelding before the year is over. And then, your promise to surrender yourself _willingly_ will at last be true.”

Valjean couldn’t reply, Javert’s fingers still filling his mouth. His heart beat faster as he thought of another promise Javert had made—the price of sleeping in Javert’s bed, which he did not doubt Javert would collect someday.

Almost, he wished Javert had never given him the choice; how much easier would it be had Javert simply grabbed hold of his hair and pushed his head down then and there, forcing him to learn that bitter lesson and swallow even those bitterest dregs of his degradation!

And yet, instead of pushing him over to the bed, Javert released him a moment later. Calmly, he took up the fine Marseille soap, the cube worn into a smooth ball by now, and began to lather up his hands.

Before Valjean even had time to understand what was happening, one of Javert’s hands curved around his neck in a firm grasp. Two fingers of Javert’s other hand slid into his mouth, scrubbing firmly over his tongue while Valjean froze in shock, his eyes tearing up at the acrid taste of soap that filled his mouth all of a sudden.

“You _will_ learn this lesson,” Javert said firmly. “You will not raise your voice at me, or I swear I will beat that lesson into you by whatever means necessary. Are we understood?”

His eyes burning with shame and humiliation and the despairing rage that still lived in a dark corner of heart, Valjean forced himself to nod. Javert’s fingers were still deep in his mouth, his other hand holding his nape in a firm grip, as one might hold a puppy or a small child.

“This is not the worst I can do to you. You know that very well,” Javert said softly, staring into Valjean’s eyes as he pressed down on his tongue. “You’d do well to remember this.”

With those words, he finally released Valjean, his fingers slipping from his mouth. Javert turned to wash his hands as if nothing had come to pass, while Valjean retched and coughed, helpless tears of shame burning in his eyes.

This was nothing compared to the hulks. To shout at a guard—he’d have tasted the whip for that. They’d have laid open his back rather than giving him the chastisement reserved for an unruly child.

Valjean knew he should be grateful. He knew that Javert, of all people, had little reason to be merciful. Even so, knowing himself to be little more than a toy Javert kept for his own amusement was, in a way, harder to bear than the number he’d worn for so long.

In Toulon, he’d been nothing. In Toulon, he’d had his rage to cling to, the endless anger that sustained him while the world around him retreated until time itself seemed a foreign concept in that eternity of suffering.

Here, with Javert, there was none of that escape to be found. He didn’t have his rage to cling to, no number to slowly vanish behind. Javert had made Valjean’s position only too clear. 

Javert wanted him willingly—he wanted absolute surrender, wanted him to submit like a horse broken in by Javert’s own hand. And even if it was only for a year or two until Fantine was free, Javert’s grip was so firm, the surrender he demanded so absolute, that Valjean was terrified of yielding to it.

Even now, the thought of giving himself up to the absolute of such a demand was tempting him. Something within him was tired; it wanted to give up the fight and yield to that promise of rest. It scared him, more than any of Javert’s threats, for he knew that if he were to let go of what remained of him, if he were to give Javert all he asked for, there might be nothing left of himself when his time was up.


	13. Chapter 13

There were lines around Valjean’s mouth and shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of suffering, his lips pressed together as he laid Javert’s table for dinner with all the noble grace of a martyr.

Even now, it made Javert smile to see it. To think that a man who had spent nineteen years in the hulks would look at him with such shame-filled eyes after a punishment that was nothing, compared to what a convict would have received! If he’d wanted, he could have given Valjean something to truly cry about. They both knew that.

Once Javert had taken his seat, he gestured for Valjean to kneel. Valjean moved more slowly than usual, but he obeyed readily enough, even though the welts had to smart.

That thought was pleasing as well.

Today, there was rabbit on Javert’s plate, stewed with cheap wine and carrots. The stew was rich, gleaming with golden fat. Valjean had filled Javert’s cup with wine, lit a fire that warmed his apartment, and placed a candle on his table. In its flickering light, Javert began to eat, filled with deep satisfaction as he thought of the miserable meals and accommodation he’d had in Toulon—better than that of the convicts, it was true, but far from the amenities the man now kneeling by his side had provided for him here in Montreuil.

Javert took hold of his glass again to take a sip of wine. The wine, too, was far better than the cheap vinegar they’d shared in the guards’ quarters. Indeed, it was better than what Javert should have been able to afford as a newly-arrived inspector in this town. The vintage was heady, rich fruit bursting on his tongue that reminded him of the sultry summers of the south. A wine fit for the table of the Chief. A wine fit for the table of the man who’d dismissed him so brusquely in Paris.

Life in Montreuil was good—but it would not do to take the amenities of his post here for granted. Who knew how long he’d keep this position. And of course, the next mayor would certainly not be as generous as Madeleine.

Still, it was a taste of what was to come. There was no reason at all why Javert should not end his days in Paris with men under his command, an apartment twice as large as this, a carriage whenever he wanted one, clothes that instantly demanded the respect due his position , and a table set with good food and good wine.

Taking another sip, he reached out with his left hand to trail his fingers lightly over Valjean’s shaved head. Again Valjean flinched instinctively, and Javert smiled, following an old scar left by a dull razor with the pad of his thumb.

No, Valjean had very little reason to complain about his treatment. Any other man would have surely devoted himself to Javert with the utmost servility. But not Valjean. No, Valjean had to turn even this into a struggle for dominance.

Well, let him fight against the hand that held the reins. Valjean wasn’t stupid; his years in Montreuil had proved it. Sooner or later, he’d let go of his misguided pride and surrender to the inevitable.

Valjean kept his head bent as Javert stroked him slowly, enjoying the feeling of the vulnerable skull beneath his hand. At last, he reached out for Valjean’s chin, tilting his head up before he held out his glass.

For a moment, he could see the fight going on behind Valjean’s eyes—and he could also see the moment he had won.

Javert had calculated right: Valjean would be grateful for a chance to finally wash the bite of the soap from his mouth. His eyes still wary, Valjean accepted Javert’s cup, then took a sip of wine. Javert curved his hand around Valjean’s nape, allowing it to rest there. Valjean’s eyes remained on him with all the wariness of a wild animal as he took another sip, and then, as Javert’s thumb gently stroked along his warm skin, a third.

Finally Javert took hold of the glass once more and returned it to the table before he leaned down, his thumb tilting up Valjean’s chin so that he could kiss him.

Once more Valjean submitted silently, his lips parting obediently for Javert’s tongue—a far cry from the man who’d opposed him earlier today. Valjean’s mouth was warm and sweet with the wine, and Javert lingered, savoring this taste of what he knew he’d one day have—Valjean’s absolute surrender, all thought of rebellion driven from him. Whether it was the taste of sugar or the taste of the whip that would bring it about, well, that was Valjean’s choice. Still, Javert had certainly illustrated his point now. And given the way Valjean yielded himself up with such docility, he did not think it had failed to make an impact.

Javert licked his lips when he finally released Valjean. At last, he began to eat. The braised rabbit was tender, falling apart on the bone, the carrots sweet. He tore the bread into pieces to mop up the gleaming, rich juices, making a contended sound.

Throughout his meal, Valjean remained quietly and obediently on his knees beside him. When Javert at last held out a piece of bread to his lips, Valjean took it from his fingers just as quietly. Javert followed it up with more bread, the occasional carrot, and then a piece of the tender, wine-stained rabbit. Valjean’s lips parted for every morsel, accepting everything Javert chose to feed him—and if it was not the grateful humility yet that Javert knew he would one day see, it was a first step towards it.

For now, it was enough to see Valjean submit to his will, like a horse that had finally tired of its futile fight against the spurs and reins.

Javert finished his rabbit, then took another drink of his wine, finishing his glass. After he returned it to the table, he reached out and dragged the tip of his finger through the glistening juices that had remained on his plate.

He offered his finger to Valjean’s lips. There was the barest moment of hesitation, little more than a tremulous exhalation against his finger, before Valjean’s lips closed around him, the heat of Valjean’s tongue rasping against his skin. Javert lingered for a moment, longer than would have been necessary to let Valjean clean his finger, enjoying the careful, hesitant way in which Valjean sucked on the digit. Valjean’s mouth was warm and soft, his tongue for the first time actively trying to draw him in deeper instead of quietly submitting to his kiss.

Javert dragged his thumb over Valjean’s bottom lip in approval. He didn’t speak when he finally released him. There was no reason to gloat now. For now, it was enough to have won this fight. He didn’t doubt that further confrontations would follow—he didn’t doubt that he would need more than just a bar of soap—but for today, it was enough.

Once it was time to retire for the night, Valjean seemed just as subdued as he followed him into his bedroom, as if their earlier confrontation on the path near the mills had never happened at all. Yet again, Valjean stripped at no more than a nod from Javert—and then, drawing in a shaky breath like a skittish horse, he drew off his shirt, placing himself on Javert’s bed without any encouragement from Javert.

Javert watched him, a smile playing on his lips. Was the hesitancy a game? Had Valjean, perhaps correctly, assumed that it would please Javert to feel that he was taming him with his own hand? Had Valjean feared that Javert wouldn’t enjoy an experienced man of the hulks; had he thought that Javert might enjoy the illusion of being the first to bend that proud neck to his will?

The idea caused a spark of heat within him, imagining the sounds Valjean might have made the very first night he was penetrated, learning to yield himself to the needs of another. Javert felt himself stiffen in his trousers at the thought. He could imagine it only too well; he did not think the sounds would have been all that different from the soft, overwhelmed gasps that had fled Valjean’s throat that night Javert had first claimed his due.

When he joined Valjean on his bed, Javert was thrumming with need, his arousal hard and aching.

“Turn around,” he said, and watched as Valjean obeyed.

Before him, lines of red crossed the back of Valjean’s thighs and his buttocks. The welts looked tender; they were still a bright red, the skin raised. In contrast, the soft skin of Valjean’s inner thighs and the dusky cleft between his buttocks appeared tantalizingly vulnerable, all the secrets of this powerful body laid out for Javert’s perusal—Javert’s mastery.

Javert moistened his lips as he looked at Valjean. “Hold yourself open,” he said, a nearly painful surge of heat racing through him when Valjean obeyed.

Just as he had done before for Javert’s inspection, Valjean’s hands grabbed hold of his buttocks, then pulled them apart.

Javert swallowed when he saw Valjean revealed to him. His hole was pink, the muscle tight, Valjean’s skin pale against the shocking red of the welts.

When Javert moved forward, Valjean’s thighs spread further apart for him, accommodating him as he knelt between them. He rested one hand on Valjean’s thigh, tracing a welt, savoring the shiver that went through Valjean.

“Why is it,” he murmured, “that this afternoon, you were fighting the reins like a panicked horse when in my bed, you’re as docile as a lamb?”

Was it not strange that Valjean should submit to his demands here without a word of protest, when a few hours earlier, Javert had seen the truth of the anger that still burned in his heart, called forth for no good reason?

Javert slicked his fingers with oil. He slowly traced around Valjean’s tight muscle, watching as it clenched instinctively in response, Valjean’s breath coming faster.

He played with Valjean for long minutes, teasing him while Valjean’s muscle contracted beneath his finger. When he penetrated him at last, Valjean yielded to him easily, his body soft and warm as it clung to him as if it wanted to keep him there while the sound of Valjean’s heavy breathing filled the room.

He added a second finger after a while, watching as it slid in, Valjean’s hole spreading for him. Valjean still held himself open in obedience to Javert’s command. Javert licked his lips again, slowly sliding in and out, enjoying the easy glide and the way Valjean yielded to him, again and again, all of his secret places open and exposed to Javert’s every whim.

Valjean’s back had begun to arch, his hips canting, his legs spreading even further as Javert slowly and thoroughly filled him with his fingers.

“Hold still.” The sight was intoxicating. “There’s more for you if you’re good.”

Valjean’s breathing was coming in little gasps now, his face turned into the blanket to smother the soft, hungry sounds he made.

Javert added a third finger, simply for the delight of seeing the swollen rim of Valjean’s hole yield to that as well, clinging to his knuckles when he sank into Valjean’s body again. Curling his fingers within the vulnerable heat of Valjean produced a groan. As Valjean arched beneath him, one of his knees slid further forward, the other to the side, all the muscles in Valjean’s body tensing and giving Javert a glimpse of the bruised red of his erect cock.

“Stop squirming, I said.” Javert chuckled at the sight. He withdrew his fingers only to slide back in, twisting within the warm channel that belonged to him and him alone. Another almost pained sound from Valjean followed, his arousal jerking against his stomach.

“See how good you can be.” Breathlessly, Javert withdrew his fingers, watching as the reddened muscle released him only reluctantly. When Javert took hold of his cock and pressed the swollen head to Valjean’s hole, Valjean made another helpless sound, the muscle contracting against him as if hungry to draw him in.

Even though he was breathless with need himself, Javert’s curiosity won out.

He held still, not pushing forward, not pressing in. Instead, running his hands slowly down Valjean’s muscled thighs, he savored the heat of the welts lining the tender skin as Valjean trembled beneath him. And then, accompanied by the sound of Valjean’s overwhelmed breathing, Valjean’s hole, slick with oil and loose from fingering, seemed to open around him, slowly drawing in the flared head of his cock in the sweetest embrace Javert had ever known.

As impossible as it seemed, Valjean—who had confronted him with blazing eyes earlier, who had raised his voice at him over the inconsequential matter of Fantine, who’d needed to be taught manners with a switch—was pushing back against Javert, his body wet with sweat and trembling all over as he willingly took Javert’s cock, the way a horse might hesitantly take the bit for the first time.

“There,” Javert said hoarsely. “You see. You get what you want when you’re good.”

He curved his hands around Valjean’s powerful thighs, stroking his slick skin as he encouraged him to move back further. The red, swollen rim of Valjean’s hole spread hungrily around his cock. Valjean still held himself spread open, obedient to his demands even now. And as Javert watched breathlessly, Valjean swallowed another centimeter, the muscles of Valjean’s thighs tensing as Valjean pushed back against him.

The inside of his body was impossibly soft and hot, embracing him like velvet, spreading for him as Valjean, still trembling, impaled himself on him.

“Slowly now,” Javert cautioned, barely able to breathe at the sight. He rested a hand on Valjean’s back. “All of it—but slowly.”

How little it would take—one thrust, and he’d sink into Valjean to the hilt. Instead, with Valjean’s labored breathing the only sound in the room, he watched as Valjean worked for it. Once he was halfway inside, a desperate moan broke free from Valjean’s throat. It had to be there where he’d curled his fingers, letting Valjean feel that mastery of him even from within while Valjean shook, the formerly so rebellious man utterly undone.

Now Javert ran his hand down Valjean’s thigh, rubbing his thumb lovingly against a hot welt.

“All of it,” he repeated, and Valjean, who came to him either with the suffering surrender of a martyr or the sullen eyes of the hulks, now obeyed tremulously, little more but tense, shaking muscles and the hot yielding of his body that clung to Javert’s aching prick as if it had been made for him.

When they were at last fully joined, Javert allowed Valjean the use of his hands to hold himself upright. Bent over him, Javert breathed in the scent of his sweat. 

“Very good,” he murmured. Then, slowly, he began to move.

The first thrust wrung a cry from Valjean’s throat. His hands digging into the sheets, Valjean raised his hips, the rim of his hole clinging deliciously to Javert’s aching cock. Javert’s hand ran down Valjean’s thigh again, something hot and hungry clenching in his stomach at the raised lines beneath his fingers, the mark he’d left on Valjean’s body—just as soon enough, he’d mark him from within.

With each thrust, Valjean’s body tightened around him. Valjean kept pushing back against him as if even now, with the entire length of Javert’s cock buried inside the hot depths of his body, he still wanted more. With his hand curved around Valjean’s hip, Javert pulled him back sharply every time he thrust forward—and every time, he was greeted by another cry and the sight of the round buttocks, still decorated with crimson stripes, clenching beneath him.

He didn’t touch Valjean until he felt his own climax approaching. Even then, it took little more than the coaxing curve of his fingers around Valjean’s heavy cock to make Valjean shudder. Accompanied by a hoarse groan, the length in Javert’s hand pulsed with a sudden release just as Javert thrust home for the final time, his own pleasure overwhelming him at last. He ground himself against the curve of Valjean’s buttocks until he was fully spent—and Valjean, still trembling beneath him, at last collapsed onto the bed with Javert still inside him.

“See how good it is when you yield,” Javert said with tired satisfaction.

He was still inside Valjean, softening within the velvety clutch of his body. Beneath Javert’s mouth, hot skin wet with sweat was still rising and falling rapidly.

As he pressed his lips contentedly to Valjean’s shoulder, he wrapped his arms around him. Valjean’s strong body rested warm and exhausted in his arms. When Javert allowed his hand to trail lower, he found Valjean’s stomach sticky with more than just sweat. Gently, he drew circles there, thinking of his cock, nestled there somewhere beneath his hand. How did that feel to Valjean, to feel him still inside, to know himself conquered and yet, perhaps, to be at ease at last?

He took hold of Valjean’s hand, drew it down to his stomach and pressed his mouth to his neck. “Do you know how good you feel inside?” he breathed. “So hot and soft…”

Idly, he trailed his mouth along Valjean’s nape, feeling the roughness of hair that had begun to regrow against his lips. A tremor ran through Valjean. He didn’t move away, but he kept shaking until Javert realized at last that Valjean was weeping silently. 

Javert kept stroking him, feeling himself still soft within Valjean, the powerful body making no move to escape his embrace despite the quiet sobs that shook Valjean.

“Will you sleep in my bed tonight?” Javert murmured long moments later, already half asleep himself.

A minute or two passed during which Valjean did not move. At last, keeping his face averted, he pushed himself up on hands and knees. Javert made a tired sound of complaint when he felt his soft cock slip from the heat of Valjean’s body.

Silently, Valjean slipped from his bed. A moment later, he returned to wipe Javert clean with a damp cloth. Then, just as silently, Valjean moved away.

Javert exhaled when he listened to the quiet sounds of Valjean curling up at the foot of his bed. Not today then… But one day. There’d been a battle won today. There’d be other battles. But sooner or later, Valjean would yield even that willingly. Javert knew it—and perhaps, so did Valjean now.

When Javert sank into sleep at last, it was with one arm spread across the bed, the mattress still warm where Valjean had rested.


	14. Chapter 14

The sun was painting broad stripes of gold across the wood of the floor when Valjean woke. For a moment, he remained in that pleasant state between dream and reality, stretching out his hand until it rested in one of those patches of early morning sunlight.

He felt exhausted and sore, as if he had taken a beating, bruised within as well as without. As he curled his fingers, the light gleamed on his nails. For a moment, all he saw was the golden light of dawn, so fresh and clean that it seemed to erase the welts and scratches that marred his skin.

Then, slowly, reality began to intrude. This wasn’t the sunlight of the hulks, which had filtered into the damp interior of the ship with an eerie aquatic quality, the rays of light reflected off the water before they filled the dim hulks. This was the bright morning light of the countryside of Northern France, not the merciless sun of the Mediterranean.

And yet, Valjean was resting on wooden planks, his body raw and sore from the discipline meted out by another’s hand.

Valjean exhaled when memory returned, bringing with it the shame of his surrender. The welts on his thighs and buttocks were still sore; he had spent the night on his stomach. And yet it had been his soul that had taken a beating last night.

Again he curled his fingers, remembering the way he had arched and cried out for Javert.

Shaking, he clenched his hand hard—but the wound had healed, as Javert had promised it would. Even though Valjean tightened his fingers until his knuckles turned white, there was none of the pain he knew he deserved. There was nothing but the relentless, faint throb of the welts that lined his backside, too dull to pull him out of his memories.

Even yesterday, so soon after Javert had disciplined him, those aching welts hadn’t been enough to halt his fall. Javert had told him where he wanted him—and it had taken little more than two weeks for Valjean to fall so low.

A sob built in his throat; he swallowed it. His hand fell open again. The light of the sun revealed the red mark on his palm.

Valjean clenched his eyes shut, turning his head against his shoulder as he wept silently, there at the foot of Javert’s bed, while the sunlight moved slowly across the floor.

Half an hour might have passed before Javert stirred at last. Valjean’s eyes were dry when Javert came to unchain him; he rose obediently, as naked as Javert, and followed him to the washbasin.

Javert appeared to be in a good mood. He watched Valjean with a small smile when Valjean began the by now familiar task of carefully washing Javert’s limbs. Javert stood loose and relaxed; when Valjean moved to his knees to wash Javert’s legs, Javert stretched with a content sound. He was half-erect, and completely unashamed of the fact that blood stiffened his cock; as much as Valjean tried to focus only on his task, he found his breathing speeding up instinctively, his eyes returning again and again to the sight of Javert’s shaft, which kept hardening as Valjean washed him.

“Do you remember,” Javert said drowsily, “the day I first came to Montreuil? We talked. You rolled your eyes at me. I’ve thought of it often since. I still do.”

Valjean halted. He swallowed as he looked up.

Javert was looking down at him, the smile still on his face. “This is better, isn’t it? No more of that insolence now. And we both know this arrangement isn’t entirely distasteful to you.”

Javert laughed again, as if it was a joke they’d shared, then turned to look out of the window.

“A good day,” he said. “You’ll progress well on that mudslide. Business takes me to Paris today, but when I return tomorrow, I’ll check on your work. You don’t want to disappoint me.”

Valjean bent his head. “No, sir.”

A day in Paris—which meant a day and a night without Javert. Valjean’s bruised soul revived at this sudden taste of freedom after the cruel beating it had taken during the preceding night.

First, though, there was another service Javert demanded.

Javert made an appreciative sound when Valjean carefully washed his swollen cock, which at last came to full hardness in Valjean’s hand. Valjean tried to ignore it as he continued with his task, but once Valjean had finished, returning the wet cloth to the basin, Javert took hold of his hand and drew it back to his cock.

Valjean swallowed. He needed no further instruction.

Javert filled his hand, thick and warm, feeling strangely alive as Valjean stroked him. When he tried to speed up, hoping to get it over with quickly, Javert made him slow down again. Javert was so hard in his hand now that Valjean could feel the throb of his pulse.

Then Javert took hold of Valjean’s free hand and drew it forward, so that it came to rest on Javert’s thigh. For a heartbeat, Valjean hesitated—but Javert’s hand had already released him again, leaving him without instruction.

The skin beneath his hand was warm. Still damp from the washcloth, it was smooth and unmarred by the scars that lined Valjean’s own body. Hesitantly, Valjean began to stroke Javert’s thigh, which earned him an approving sound of encouragement.

Something twisted in Valjean’s stomach. Javert’s prick was obscenely swollen. Valjean barely knew where to look. The gleam of the wet glans appearing from the circle formed by his fingers made him shiver instinctively—but to turn his gaze instead to where his hand was slowly sliding over Javert’s thigh, feeling the flexing of lean muscles beneath smooth skin, to see the light dusting of hair further up that at last turned into the coarse curls surrounding the root of Javert’s cock, was even more embarrassing.

Javert was breathing heavily. It was the only sound in the room.

Valjean listened to it as he stroked Javert in the same rhythm, his own breath coming quicker as he watched the flushed head of Javert’s cock appear from the grasp of his fingers once more. A bead of wetness had welled up from the hole at the tip, gleaming in the light. As Valjean watched, it ran down Javert’s glans.

Hesitantly, Valjean rubbed the pad of his thumb against it when he stroked upwards again, spreading it over the slick skin. Javert groaned softly in approval. Another translucent droplet followed. The muscles of Javert’s stomach were flexing, his gleaming skin taut over the sharp lines of his hips. More hair led downward from his navel in a thin line, Javert’s muscles shifting beneath his skin with every rapid breath he took as Valjean worked his prick.

A rectangle of light spread across Javert’s chest, his skin aglow with the golden luster of ocher where sunlight fell in. The window grid threw a shadow across his upper body, a cross that followed the lines of his collarbones, the vertical bar a harsh line slashed across his chest, leading down to where he was hard as iron in Valjean’s hand.

It wasn’t until Valjean realized that his hand had traveled upward, his fingertips pressing against the fluttering muscles of Javert’s stomach, that he became aware of the tightness in his own stomach, tendrils of oppressive heat unfurling inside him.

When he looked up in shock, he found that Javert was watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, his face, for once, unsmiling—and his breath coming in the same fast rhythm as Valjean’s.

Valjean’s lips parted. He held Javert’s gaze as he kept stroking him, his cock so hard he could feel the throb of blood.

Valjean’s hand was still pressed against the hot skin of Javert’s stomach. He could feel the exact the moment Javert reached his climax: the muscles beneath his fingertips suddenly tensed a heartbeat before Javert groaned, those impenetrable eyes closing. Javert’s mouth went slack as he exhaled—and then a first pulse of his release splashed against his stomach.

Something inside Valjean was taut and urgent. He’d stopped breathing, but even so, he couldn’t look away. There was another pulse of Javert’s spend, and another, the last dripping hot across Valjean’s knuckles as Javert’s muscles contracted beneath his hand.

Then, at last, Javert sighed deeply and opened his eyes again, the accustomed smile returned to his face.

Valjean’s hand was still pressed to Javert’s stomach. Now, with their eyes locked once more, Valjean froze like a trapped animal.

“Open your mouth,” Javert said.

Valjean obeyed, warily awaiting the eerie sensation of Javert’s tongue in his mouth that he knew was to follow.

Instead, Javert dragged a finger across his stomach. Then, slowly, so that Valjean could see the glistening semen that clung to his skin, he raised it to Valjean’s mouth.

Valjean shivered when Javert’s fingertip slowly traced over his tongue. Javert’s semen was still warm; a moment later, Valjean could taste him, earthy and bitter.

Javert’s thumb stroked along Valjean’s bottom lip, in what might have been a gentle caress if Valjean’s heart had not been racing so in his chest. Javert’s finger was still in his mouth, the taste of his release spreading over Valjean’s tongue, filling his senses. Valjean could smell him now, too: the heady musk of sex, the bitter note of his spend, the lavender scent of the soap.

When Javert at last released him, it was only to slide his hand around Valjean’s nape once more, his thumb rubbing gently against the stubble of growing hair. Valjean started when Javert’s other hand pressed against his cock. Valjean had thought that it was fear that made his heart race; with Javert’s fingers pressing against him, he realized with sudden betrayal that he was achingly hard, his shaft pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat.

“Shall I give you release?” Javert murmured, his thumb stroking along the underside of Valjean’s cock.

Valjean trembled, the tightness in his stomach coiling further, as if something within him had been stretched close to breaking point. A part of him wanted to give himself up to it: to close his eyes and let the tears come and let Javert break him to make an end of this torment within his breast.

Instead, his heart thundering in his chest, he heard himself saying, “I would rather another beating. Sir.”

Javert huffed a laugh as if amused rather than insulted. “Do you,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes. You would, wouldn’t you.”

He released Valjean, who struggled to breathe, so relieved at the sudden freedom from the terrifying need within him that he failed to realize that Javert had stepped away to retrieve something.

“Here. Over the bed,” Javert said when he returned.

Javert was holding his belt in his hand. The sight made Valjean tremble, but even now the aching tightness within him remained, his cock pulsing heavily as he allowed Javert to arrange him on the bed.

Then Javert’s belt came down, and Valjean wept again, hiding his face in his arms.

Javert’s arms were strong; he’d doubled the belt, and every time the leather came down, Valjean groaned through his tears. The pain was dull, unlike the fierce, bright agony of the switch; it resonated through his body, his buttocks throbbing with heat. Where the leather bit into his skin, the day old welts sprang into flame again. His entire backside was smarting, and still the traitorous heat within him had not entirely abated.

Javert paused for a moment. Slowly, he trailed his hand over Valjean’s buttocks, stroking his burning flesh, then squeezing it admiringly until Valjean made another miserable sound.

“It’s different, isn’t it?” Javert mused, sounding almost admiring. “The punishment of the hulks never made you cry. It’s not the pain. I don’t believe that. Strange to think you’d have any shame left after nineteen years in Toulon, but I’m starting to think you do.”

Javert’s thumb traced along a burning line he had left, and Valjean heard his own breath hitch.

“I knew all along it would be unavoidable to discipline you,” Javert murmured. He laughed softly. “I imagined it sometimes when we were talking. You behind your desk, ordering me around with such insolence when we both knew who you were. I just never thought it would be like this—so satisfying. It seems you’re not the only one learning a lesson here. I’ll keep this in mind in the future.”

Javert’s hand trailed upwards. It came to rest at the small of Valjean’s back, its heaviness strangely reassuring. Then the belt fell down again, forcing a groan from Valjean and flooding him with gratitude at the same time.

This was what he was to Javert. He needed to remember it.

But even now, with the heavy reprimand of Javert’s own belt making him ache, he could still see the precipice before him. Javert had lured him so close to the edge that Valjean need only allow himself to fall.

But if he fell, if he allowed himself to perish in the terrifying allure of Javert’s embrace—in the pain that he deserved, if not from Javert’s hand—then what was to become of Fantine?

And what was to become of him when Javert left Montreuil eventually?

Javert didn’t offer salvation. Javert didn’t even offer expiation. To Javert, Valjean was a pleasant distraction—a toy that amused him.

And when the time came, he had to be prepared to run, for there was nothing waiting for him here but the transient relief of the pain Javert offered.

***

Valjean was grateful when he was at last able to escape into the mindless labor waiting for him, swinging the pickax in the warm sunlight until his shoulders ached, and carrying rocks without pause until, little by little, they’d progressed enough to see the end in sight. Caillot once slapped his back in approval when Valjean carried a particularly heavy rock to the pile instead of bothering to break it into smaller pieces; Valjean flinched at the sudden touch, but when Caillot only laughed cheerfully in response, he dared to relax.

“That inspector has it out for you, eh?” Caillot chuckled appreciatively. “Shame even that won’t thaw the heart of our pretty little Fantine. That one’s like an angry cat—fur bristling as soon as she looks at you.”

Valjean felt his throat close again. Wordlessly, he turned away to return to his work, but just at that moment, the sound of hoofbeats announced the arrival of a visitor. A moment later, he came into view around the bend of the road. It was one of Javert’s men, Gilbert—and by his side, there was Robert once more.

Valjean felt his heart sink at the familiar sight of his friend. Was Robert truly set on destroying the good reputation he had in the town? Even if he didn’t strive for a public office, it would do him no favors to be seen in public with a convict again and again.

“Wonderful,” Robert could be heard saying when they slowly approached. “Well done, Gilbert, truly splendid work. It looks like the path will be clear just in time for the carts from Alette to arrive next week.”

“About time, too,” Gilbert said. “Javert’s been having trouble with this lot, but he knows how to make them pick up the pace.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Robert said dryly.

Valjean paused his work for a heartbeat, watching Robert despite their parting words the last time they had talked. It seemed impossible now to have turned away from Robert’s compassion when all that Javert offered was an annihilation so complete that it still made Valjean shudder to feel that yearning for it deep inside himself even now.

Robert did not turn to acknowledge him. Valjean felt a stab in his heart as he watched Robert jest with the police agent.

Valjean knew that it was the right decision. He owed it to Robert to not stand in his path, after the damage he’d done. Still, to think of Robert joining in when they laughed about Valjean’s fate in the officers’ café or the marketplace…

Gilbert threw a satchel at Caillot, which Valjean knew would hold some bread and cheese for their short midday break.

“Here—let me offer you this as well, mademoiselle,” Robert said brightly.

As Valjean watched, Robert reached into his pocket. He nudged his horse forward, only to let an apple drop into Fantine’s hand, who accepted it with a suspicious look—not bothering to thank him.

“You too, Gilbert? I’ve just inspected my orchards. It looks like it will be a good harvest this year.”

Robert produced a fine, red apple for the police agent, then reached into his pockets once more. Further apples—these still somewhat green—were dropped into the hands of Caillot, Fasquel and his wife. Then, at last, Robert looked up.

Valjean swallowed when Robert gazed at him coldly, with none of the warmth he had become so accustomed to—he, who had never known friendship before Robert.

“And you don’t deserve a treat,” Robert said, loud enough that the words would carry to Gilbert, “given how often you’ve been eating my food and drinking my wine. A convict at my table, just think of that! But let it not be said that I’m not a good Christian. Here. That’s all you can expect from me now.”

A final apple—the smallest of the lot, and still entirely green—was hurled at Valjean, who caught it by reflex.

Gilbert laughed. “Let’s not tell the chief about it. From the way he goes on about that one, he doesn’t deserve the clothes on his back.”

Robert chuckled appreciative, and Valjean let his head drop, sickened despite his earlier advice to Robert.

He turned the apple in his hand without really seeing it, thinking back to those days when Robert, enthusiastic about his new project, had persuaded him to accept the mayoral sash. How Robert had to regret those days now.

All of a sudden, Valjean became aware that something was brushing against his fingertip.

When his eyes focused on the apple at last, he saw that someone had cut into the fruit. And into that cut, a piece of paper was wedged, folded into a tiny square.

Valjean froze, then looked up. Gilbert was still distracted by Robert. The other men and women were busy with their own apples and the welcome break from the monotony of their work.

Hastily, Valjean turned around and freed the note. When he unfolded it, the familiar script of Robert greeted him.

_“Take heart. I think I know a way to help you. It will take time—and I will need to disavow you in public. But everything you see me do from now on I will do for you. You’re not alone. Don’t lose faith.”_

His heart suddenly pounding in his breast, Valjean turned back and raised his head. Robert was watching him—his face still without emotion, but Valjean could see his eyes travel to the apple in his hand. 

Valjean nodded slightly, then raised the apple to his mouth. It was tart, not entirely ripe yet, but the acidic juices washed the bitterness from his mouth, which had lingered there since the morning.

He humbly lifted his cap when Robert rode past him. Robert did not grace him with even a single glance, but in Valjean’s hand, the paper felt reassuringly real.

Not everything was lost. No matter how tempting it was to surrender himself to the oblivion Javert offered, he had to remember that he wasn’t alone. He still had a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not actually possible to travel that quickly from Montreuil-sur-Mer to Paris on horseback and back - but since that is what Javert seems to do in the miniseries, I've decided to go with that inaccuracy here as well. (It's a distance of over 200 km one way, and even given a good, well-trained horse that can do 100 km in a day, he'd have to take five days off from work for such a trip, which he clearly doesn't do when he races off to denounce Madeleine at the Prefecture and seems to come back the same evening. Travel in a coach that changes horses would be much faster, but since the BBC gave us fast travel and Original Horse Characters, that's what I'm sticking with as well.)


	15. Chapter 15

It was late in the afternoon when Javert made his way along the Quai des Orfèvres. Noiraude snorted in satisfaction when they took the familiar turn into the Rue de Jérusalem after the long hours of travel. The mare’s neck was wet with sweat, the dark brown of her coat now gleaming black, and when Javert dismounted, he grabbed the arm of the boy who had reached for her reins.

“Make sure to wipe her down and water her, do you hear me? And feed her well.”

Then, making his way inside where the Chief Inspector awaited him, he could not help but note with fierce satisfaction the change that had come to pass in just a few weeks after he had last traveled here to speak to Gisquet.

Back then, men had loitered in corridors, waiting idly in the Chief’s office, each and every one of them dressed as badly as if they belonged behind bars instead of wielding the cuffs and the cudgel. And when he had entered, they had watched him with an insolent greed not unlike the looks greeting a young man who entered a gambling den for the first time in his life.

Now, there was a marked difference. As soon as he entered, the room fell quiet, the men taking notice of him. This time, everyone knew who he was. And if many of them still stared at him with envy or that jealous derision he knew all too well, let them. They knew his name now. It had been the same way in the hulks. Let the men stare and whisper behind his back while he kept rising. There would come a day when the very men who now traded crude theories about his parentage would be forced to take his orders.

He ignored them as he stalked into the office, heading straight towards Gisquet’s desk, who this time rose and greeted him with no surprise.

“Ah, Javert. Right on time. Very well. I have the prosecutor’s report here somewhere—”

“Here, sir,” a man seated at a desk said—one of the few who was bent over his work instead of lazing against walls.

When Javert moved towards him, he hastily rose and offered his seat. “I have your reports here as well, M. Javert.”

Javert stared at him, taking in his clothes—clean, unrumpled, although of the same cheap quality as the garments the other spies wore. Javert didn’t think the man had been here when he’d first introduced himself to the Chief Inspector and tried to inform him about Jean Valjean’s new identity.

“Good, Rivette. Make yourself useful somewhere else.” Gisquet waved his hand dismissively before he pulled one of the letters forward.

Rivette straightened. “Sir,” he said, then hesitated, looking at Javert. “Would you like me to take your coat, sir?”

Javert thought he heard a muffled laugh somewhere at the back of the room. He ignored it, studying Rivette, who looked back at him from earnest eyes. His cravat was neatly tied around his throat, his cheeks cleanly shaved, his mustache well groomed.

After a moment, Javert briefly inclined his head and turned around, allowing the coat to slip from his shoulders while Rivette reached out for it.

From the scornful looks the other men gave him when he hung the coat on a coat rack by the door, Javert assumed that Rivette was a new arrival to the Prefecture. Perhaps his eagerness to impress Gisquet would die away within another week or two as the other men accepted him into their brotherhood of slovenliness and idleness. Or perhaps Rivette would still be here when Javert would manage to get himself promoted to the Prefecture. 

It was apparent that it would take work to transform this place—the men here might snicker at his background now, but in their slumped posture, stained coats and unshaven faces Javert could see the same brutishness that had surrounded him in the hulks. These men, despite the way they stared at him, were no better than the drunk prison guards among whom he’d begun his career.

In any case, it would be good to have a man or two like Rivette beneath him when it came to it.

When Javert left the Prefecture, it was getting dark.

Noiraude had recovered somewhat: her eyes were alert and her coat dry when he went to check on her. He threw the boy who had taken care of her a coin, then left the stables of the Prefecture. The sun fully set while he threaded his way through the crowds that lined the Quai des Orfèvres, until he found an inn that looked of slightly better repute than others he had passed.

It was strange to eat his dinner in the loud atmosphere of the inn. Even though he had chosen a small table in a quiet, shadowy corner, it was impossible to escape the din of voices. For the past weeks, Valjean had served him his food; now, it was served by a harried girl who barely looked at him, hastening back and forth while other customers called for more wine.

The food wasn’t bad; even so Javert barely tasted it as he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts lingering on the man he’d left behind.

He did not doubt that Valjean had spent the day thinking of him as well; his belt had seen to that. How strange that Valjean had asked for it when it was Valjean who had always come to his bed so willingly…

Well, perhaps it was not so strange; the man was no doubt experienced in such things from his long years in the hulks, and yet his years as mayor had made him ashamed of past appetites. Or perhaps not all of Valjean’s change of heart was a lie; perhaps he had, in his heart of hearts, begun to understand that hardest of lessons and now longed for the only response his crimes deserved.

Strange, though, that Valjean seemed to reject the justice meted out by the law, yet could long for a punishment meted out by Javert’s own hand.

It was with thoughts of Valjean’s powerful body spread out on his bed, tensing beneath him, that Javert finally retired to bed. Tomorrow the long journey home awaited—and before that, he had a few purchases left to make.

***

Impatiently, Javert made his way through the market crowd, his sharp glance scaring off a pickpocket who’d trailed him for several minutes. Javert allowed his lips to curl with derision. The boy was dirty and thin, clad in filthy rags, about twelve or thirteen years of age. At thirteen, Javert had long been working for his own bread.

There were other thieves and ruffians about. Javert’s smile widened when a harlot stumbled into him, then invited him to follow her back into an alley, where doubtlessly, someone with a knife was waiting.

Without bothering to reply to her woeful story, he pushed her away, continuing his stroll through the market. There were many stalls here, vendors selling not just the produce of the local fields, which was what the small marketplace of Montreuil offered, but delicacies from all over France and other countries.

One stall finally caught his attention. It was a spice vendor, selling white bulbs of garlic, golden saffron, the fragrant lavender of Provence, and mounds of dried, green herbs: tarragon, marjoram, rosemary, sage and many more.

To the poles of the stall, bundles of dried garlic and onions had been tied along with twigs of rosemary and thyme. And there, in a corner, hung several bundles of tiny, dried peppers which Javert recalled from his childhood, running errands in the port of Toulon.

The vendor eyed him, then gave him an obsequious smile. “Peppers from Espelette,” he said. “Perhaps not as hot as the flavors of Saint-Domingue, but if monsieur misses a familiar taste, I have these peppers, much hotter, just off a ship from Cayenne…”

“How much?” Javert said curtly.

The vendor demanded ten sous with a shrewd look at Javert’s clothes; Javert parted from him at last with a bundle of the peppers tucked into his pocket, and six sous in the spice merchant’s hand.

It was still early. Nevertheless, there was work waiting for him in Montreuil, and it would not do to linger.

The clothes Javert wore had been expensive for a man of his position and were of good quality; they would have to last a while yet, especially since he did not know what was to come. There was no sense in visiting the shop of a tailor with that uncertainty, as much as the urbanity of Paris attracted him after the many months in the provinces. As different as Paris was to the Mediterranean city of his childhood with its blue skies and salty air, there was something in the hustle and bustle all around him that felt familiar, although the streets themselves were not familiar yet.

His time would come. He’d taken a first, large step towards it with his arrest of Madeleine. For now, he had to be patient.

He’d already turned around to return to the stables of the Prefecture when another stall caught his eye.

This one was colorful as well, but instead of spices or luxurious silks, it sold sugary confections to a bourgeois clientele—confections that had been far out of his reach as a child, running back and forth to do errands for sailors and soldiers for a handful of bread every day.

He could not say what made him slow down until he found himself come to a halt in front of it, eying a tin of candied violets arranged next to the nut-studded nougat from Montélimar.

A woman of perhaps fifty years of age eyed him, then, apparently satisfied by the bourgeois clothes he wore, invited him to take a closer look.

“Some sweets to take home, monsieur?” she asked, holding up a small box. “Anis de Flavigny, the famous anise dragées from Burgundy. What girl wouldn’t look favorably on the bearer of such sugary delights?” Then she winked. “Or perhaps monsieur is wooing a mistress…”

The thought was ludicrous, but Javert found himself suddenly smiling.

No, he didn’t have a mistress to woo. But there was an ill-trained stallion awaiting him at home, who was going to taste the whip—and worse. Perhaps Javert could afford to be generous as well. The thought of one of the small, white anise dragées melting on Valjean’s pink tongue, Valjean’s warm lips taking it warily from his palm… Yes, that was pleasing enough.

Javert spent a few minutes deliberating. At last, when he turned from the stall, it was with both the candied violets from Toulouse and the anise dragées.

The vendor had offered him one of the crystallized violets to try, which had melted on his tongue with sugary sweetness, ending with a gentle burst of flowery perfume. The anise, on the other hand, was a round pill of hard sugar, applied with great patience in layer after layer around the single grain of anise that laid at its center. Driven by a sudden urge he couldn’t explain, Javert had purchased a quantity of these as well.

When he slipped the box into a pocket of his coat, he acknowledged the strangeness of this impulse with a wry smile. While he’d enjoyed all the amenities that had come with his position in Montreuil—the fine horse, the good wine and food he could now afford, the respectable wardrobe—he had never been tempted to overindulge with sugary treats. Or indeed, to overindulge at all.

At least, not until Jean Valjean had surrendered himself into his power. And then… Then, perhaps, he had indulged himself too much. He’d become so used to his new routine that one night spent in Paris, without Valjean available to obey his every order with an expression of suffering in his eyes, had left him eager for their meeting this evening.

Someone bumped into Javert when he turned around for one final look at the market. Instinct made him reach out to grab the man’s arm before he had even seen his face, well used to the tricks pickpockets employed in such crowded spaces. And indeed, the man’s face seemed strangely familiar.

“Oh! It’s you! Pardon, sir—I didn’t see you there.”

“Rivette, isn’t it?” Javert said after a moment when something about the man’s chagrined look stirred his memory. “What are you doing here? Gisquet didn’t send you to keep an eye on me, did he?”

“Oh! Not at all, sir.”

Rivette still looked vaguely worried, but Javert was starting to believe that this might just be the man’s permanent state. 

“Are you certain?” Javert said with a smile. “I can’t be very popular with your colleagues.”

“Oh.” Now the look of worry on Rivette’s face increased. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve only just been transferred here. But that can’t be right. I’ve been sorting Gisquet’s papers all week; there were lots of reports about the man you unmasked—a mayor who was a convict! The story made it into all the papers here. Between us, sir, I think Gisquet’s happy about anything positive at all in the papers these days. Why would that make you unpopular?”

“Your colleagues might be feeling threatened.” Javert allowed himself another smile. “Really, Rivette, you’re telling me you’ve been welcomed with open arms by that lot?”

“Well,” Rivette said hesitantly, “Pauchet told me to stop with the bootlicking because I make them all look bad—but surely that was a joke. I just figured, since I’m new, easiest way to get acquainted with how everything’s done around here is to bury myself in the paperwork for a while. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

Javert exhaled a soft laugh. How late was it? The sun stood low; it had to be early still. He couldn’t have spent more than half an hour on the market.

“Come,” he then said. “Let me buy you some wine. I want to know what you think of the Prefecture. The men you work with. Tell me what you’ve learned about how things are done around here.”

“I really shouldn’t, sir—I’m looking for a pair of ruffians. She lures men into alleys; he waits there with a knife.”

Javert made an amused sound. “Had I known they were yours, I’d have held her for you. I fear I chased her away.”

“Can’t be all that smart to try her wiles on you, sir,” Rivette said good-naturedly. “That means I should be able to catch her sooner or later. Very well then, I’ll tell you what you want to know. If you tell me about that spectacular case of yours.”

“Deal.”

It was still early, after all—and if he drove Noiraude hard, they would still be able to make it back to Montreuil before sunset. Javert wanted to see Valjean silent and obedient, taking his coat and serving his food and going to his knees at a snap of his fingers.

But that hunger was a now familiar glow in the pit of his stomach, and it was easy to bear it for a while when he knew that he could satisfy it any time he pleased.

To enter the offices of the Prefecture had fanned an older hunger—much older. That hunger had been placed in the cradle with him—if he’d ever rested in a cradle as a child. He rather doubted it.

He hadn’t thought of his parents in many years—they’d made their choice, after all, just as he had. The spice merchant’s insinuations had been nothing new either. But in truth, what did it matter?

His parents had been criminals. He’d known the truth of what that meant. A jail had been his cradle. He’d learned to walk and talk among the scum of the earth, and when he was old enough to realize where he was, and that following the path of his parents would keep him there forever, he’d made his own choice.

He’d hungered for more. He’d hungered for the freedom of just men who’d never seen the inside of a jail. He’d hungered for respectability. He’d hungered for the authority that made hardened criminals quake when a guard’s eyes fell on them.

He’d seen all around him the men and women of Toulon in their clean clothes, saw them dine in inns on good food or buy meat and eggs in the marketplace when he was subsisting on scraps. He wanted what they had. And he’d taken it—but not like a thief did. He’d earned it by year after year of hard work, teaching himself to read and write, standing clear of the small infractions and bribery that were rampant among the guards.

Now he had what he’d always wanted—and there was more, already within reach. Paris. The Prefecture. To think that one might transform that band of slovenly spies that disgraced the Chief Inspector’s office…

But first, they would need to offer him a position in the Prefecture. He’d be working beneath Gisquet. He’d be working among men who he knew had already taken against him.

Still, that wasn’t a new experience either. The guards of the hulks hadn’t been exactly welcoming to a youth of his background.

All it took was perseverance. And when the time came, perhaps there’d already be a man among the Prefecture’s agents he could rely upon.

Javert chose a corner table, then poured the wine. “So. Tell me. What’s it like, working for Gisquet?”


	16. Chapter 16

It was strange to have an entire evening on his hands. The day had been long, the work hard—although at least they had kept progressing, Valjean once more foregoing any breaks to carry the rocks from the road in addition to breaking them up.

Javert should be pleased when he returned—although that, too, was not something to look forward to. Surely any reward he might choose to give would be besmirched with the same degradation Valjean had helplessly felt himself falling into.

He pushed that thought away, focusing on the pleasure of being able to wash his body here in the privacy of the barracks. The other two men had gone first and had now retreated to the kitchen where the women were preparing their dinner.

It was a blessing to for once shed his clothes in private, without curious eyes following the lines the whip had left on his back—or the more recent marks of his punishment at Javert’s hands. Marks which would fade soon enough, of course, but which nevertheless left him breathless with shame at the thought that one of the other indentured servants might see them.

After he had hastily washed the dust and mud from his body, he slipped on a clean shirt. He eyed his bed with yearning, but it had been a long day of hard work, and he was hungry. He did not feel up to a confrontation over the food—he did not want to make enemies among the people who were forced to share his misery—and he would be content with some bread. Still, he could see well enough that Javert had done him no favors by singling him out so obviously, even though Valjean had taken no enjoyment from it.

For a moment, he thought of the sounds he’d made, the sensation of Javert’s hot, sweat-slick skin against his own. He had to close his eyes for a moment, clenching his fists to regain his equilibrium. There was no longer the familiar, sharp pain to ground him; the burn had healed too well. When he opened his eyes again, he could still see Javert before him with a smile on his face, his eyes dark with confidence that Valjean would break.

Hastily, Valjean fled the quiet room and his memories. When he entered the kitchen, all conversation fell quiet for a moment. Fantine turned her head away with a sharp movement, and after a moment, Fasquel’s wife Marie moved to her side.

It was Caillot the thief who was the first to speak. “Dining with us today, M. le Maire?” He chuckled hoarsely, but nodded at the table where only four plates were laid. “Eh, Fantine, another.”

“He can get his own,” she shot back, fury still sparkling in her eyes.

Quietly, Marie reached out for the fifth plate and put it down on the table, where Fasquel and Caillot now made space for Valjean to sit down.

Fantine’s jaw was clenched, and when she brought over the pot from where it had cooked over the fire, she set it down with a loud thud.

Caillot chuckled again, then took the ladle and began to serve them. It was a thin soup made from a small handful of bones, but the barley and the roots cooked in it were plentiful. It was nothing compared to Javert’s rich stews and braised rabbits, but it was enough to sate the hunger of men who had worked hard all day—and compared to the meager meals of Valjean’s childhood that had left them slowly starving, it was a veritable feast.

The leftover chunks of dark bread had gone stale, but served well enough to soak up the soup, accompanied by a sharp, pale cheese.

Valjean ate with humble gratitude, wondering at Javert’s generosity—or was it he, perhaps, who had set the budget for supplies for the town’s indentured servants?

The custom had always horrified him. He had made certain that any person in Montreuil in danger of losing their freedom for debts had found work in his factory—or, if they were unable or ill-suited, had found ways to quietly buy up such small debts and destroy them, or occasionally found a way to leave some money in a poor garret.

Still—he could not remember it now. It must have seemed absurd that such a possibility would ever become reality in Montreuil, as long as he had the power to avert it, but it was not unlikely that he himself had set aside the money for what they were now eating out of the town’s budget.

Perhaps the thought should have been comforting; it wasn’t. What good was it to alleviate one symptom when he’d had the power to rip out the entire system of misery that had led these people here? Worse—when he had not only failed to stop, but actively thrust Fantine into this position?

***

The next day was a Sunday. Even for men like them, there was the opportunity to attend Mass, but Valjean was horrified by the mere thought of all eyes upon him in his shame.

After breakfast, the others went out to do their washing; Valjean stayed behind, using the silence to quietly pray, although it was unbearable to think of the Bishop who had once set him on the long and hard path of redemption. What would that compassionate man have to say now to the way Valjean had treated Fantine?

Valjean had thought that the coin he’d stolen from Petit-Gervais had been one last evil deed, a final outcry of the wickedness within him that he’d ruthlessly sought to stamp out afterward. But he’d been wrong. That wickedness, that evil, had always been at the heart of him, no matter how hard he’d tried to bury it.

Javert had always known that.

Valjean stretched his hand out towards the window. In the light falling in, the fading red of the burn revealed the round lines of the coin. Javert would be pleased to see that he’d been right. In the hulks, Valjean had seen enough burns to know that this would leave a mark, like the letters on the shoulders of men who’d already been old when he’d entered the hulks after that custom had been abolished.

Javert was right about that, too: it was only fitting that Valjean should carry that brand of his own wickedness. Perhaps this time, once Fantine’s year was over and he’d seen her reunited with her daughter, once he’d helped her to the life the child deserved—perhaps in Paris, perhaps with Robert’s assistance—perhaps then, Valjean would manage to cling to true goodness, with the mark on his hand forever reminding him of what was at stake if he strayed just one step from his path.

***

Once he heard the sound of the others returning, Valjean hastily took up the bundle of his own dirty clothes and ventured out towards a lonely stretch of the Canche outside of the town, where he’d be able to do his washing unobserved.

The wind carried the sound of the church bells from the distance. Just a few weeks ago, he would have quietly entered the church of Saint-Saulve at this time. Now, instead, he fell to his knees by the side of the river and buried his face in his hands. The sound of bells reverberated all around him as he squeezed his eyes shut, echoing from the mountain peaks surrounding Digne, still ringing when a young boy ran away from him, crying.

When the church bells at last fell silent, Valjean thrust his shirts into the cold water, clenching his teeth as he scrubbed them with the coarse soap until his hands were red. Once he’d wrung the water from them and draped them over the branches of a tree, he shed the clothes he was wearing and waded into the water, quickly washing himself.

It was a relief to have this brief moment of privacy. Although the water was cold, he lingered in the river for a while. There was, after all, nothing awaiting him on his return to the barracks.

He could not bear the thought of entering the church with the weight of his sins on his back. He had lost all of his possessions—all of the books that had once brought him joy, giving him moments of fleeing to faraway places in his mind. He had his bible—Javert had allowed him to take that, at least. To spend the afternoon reading, out of sight of Javert’s suspicious eyes, would perhaps be enough to give him strength to bear whatever Javert asked of him during the coming week.

The thought brought with it the cutting memory of his shame—the stretch of Javert inside him, the unbearable pleasure of it, the memory of Javert’s stomach flexing beneath his fingers as Javert found release.

Hastily, his face flushed, Valjean fled the water. His buttocks smarted when he drew on his trousers once more. He drew in a shaky breath, trying to remember the fall of Javert’s belt, the deep, dull pain of it—the truth of what he was to Javert.

The truth of what he was.

Valjean opened his hand again. The chill of the water had made the red lines of the burn stand out in relief against skin that had gone pale with cold. For a moment, he thought that in the yet-blurry patch of reddened skin, he could make out the shape of the emperor’s head.

Valjean dropped his hand, clenching his teeth as he gathered his wet clothes. An entire Sunday at his disposal. More: an entire day free from the torment of Javert’s presence. And instead of using the rare, blessed solitude to sleep, rest, and pray, he allowed Javert to haunt him even now…

With a sudden burst of frustrated impatience he grabbed hold of the last pair of trousers that had become stuck, pulling it down forcefully. The twig that had refused to release it gave way with a loud crack, and Valjean flinched. Pulling the wet clothes against his chest, he hurried away in shame at the violence still hidden within him.

He was so preoccupied with his feelings of remorse and guilt that he didn’t see them until it was too late.

Fantine and two young women were sitting beneath a willow, close to the river, hidden from view by bushes that lined the road there. Valjean had been avoiding the road in the hope of avoiding eyes, and when he came around the thicket of bushes, he nearly ran into them.

They had been talking, although they had immediately fallen silent at his intrusion. Now, recognition spread across their faces, and Valjean felt heat rush to his face when he realized who they were.

Two young women who had worked in his factory. Had they been friends of Fantine? It was a relief to think that despite her current situation, she still had friends in the town. She would need them.

He found himself wondering all of a sudden what life was like for them. Had they found new employment? Were they waiting until the factory was sold, in the hope that the new owner would let them keep their jobs?

He had wronged them too, he knew that. By saving one man, he had let everyone down who had depended on him in this town. Either choice would have caused suffering. Still, it had been impossible to let another go to the hulks in his stead…

Fantine sprang to her feet. “Are you spying on me? It’s bad enough I have to serve you your food every day, _M. le Maire_.” She spat into his direction again. “You’re a monster, and now everyone knows you for who you are. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll tell Javert. He might not like me—but he’s not fooled by your act.”

Valjean swallowed, thinking of the burning shame of being beaten right in front of Fantine and the others.

“And I don’t need you to defend me,” she added angrily. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it’ll stop. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want you to pretend to defend me. It’s thanks to you I’m even here.”

“I’m not following you,” Valjean said. “I’m sorry. I was washing my clothes.”

She eyed the wet clothes in his arms with suspicious eyes.

Valjean’s mouth was dry as he tried to come up with words. What was there he could say to apologize for what he’d done?

“I’m sorry I sent you away,” he said quietly. “It’s all my fault; I know that. I can’t undo it—but I’ll try to make up for it somehow.”

He still couldn’t think how—the money he’d earned had been confiscated by the state. Even the candlesticks had been taken by Javert.

But Robert had a plan. He couldn’t forget that he still had Robert’s friendship. And once Fantine’s year was over, Robert would see to it that Fantine and her child were cared for. Robert would do that if Valjean asked him to.

“Well, you can’t,” Fantine said. She brushed some grass off her skirt when she stood. “You’re a thief. A convict. The only thing I’ve ever done wrong was to try and care for my child, no matter what. You punished me for that. You, pretending to be so good—the saintly Père Madeleine—when in truth, you were no better than any other man. I know men like you. You think that you can smile at me and I’ll immediately forgive everything, do whatever you say, believe all your lies? I was that naive once, but I’ve learned that lesson. So stay away from me. If you touch me, I’ll find a knife somewhere. Do you understand me?”

It took a few seconds for Fantine’s words to catch up with Valjean, but when they did, he stumbled a step backwards, horrified.

“I wouldn’t—that is, I never—”

“Just leave her alone,” one of the other girls said. “You’ve done enough damage in this town already. Why’d you do it anyway? Why run off to Arras? Sophie and me, we’re out of work now. They’re going to sell the factory, and no one knows what’s going to happen.”

“That was stupid,” Sophie agreed. “Javert wouldn’t have ever known. And old Madame Victurnien? I’ve never seen that dragon so happy—but now she’s without work, too, just like Fabs and me.”

“She says she’s going to live with her sister in Étaples if no one buys the factory. Well, they probably deserve her.”

Fantine’s friends laughed.

Valjean was still staring at Fantine, feeling horror creep up inside him. Had she thought, back when he’d still owned the factory, that he’d demand such things of her? She’d smiled at him sometimes, he remembered that. Now, with Javert’s constant gaze resting upon him with relentless heaviness, it made him shudder to think that she’d felt as he had—ever aware of the fact that the man gazing at him wielded power he had no choice but to yield to.

“You’re in no danger from me,” he said hoarsely, swallowing. “And there’s no need to serve my food—if you’d prefer, I can eat once you’re done.”

Fantine scoffed. “It’s not like you eat with us anyway. Better food in Javert’s quarters, I would think. Isn’t that right?”

One of the women looked up sharply at her words, and as she studied him, Valjean thought that he could decipher something like pity in her eyes.

Hastily, he averted his gaze, his stomach churning at the thought that half the town might already be aware of the way he offered himself to Javert. For all he knew, Javert boasted of his surrender to all his friends.

And still—even that was a price Valjean would be willing to pay. He’d had no friends in the hulks—nothing but the shared, grinding misery that had crushed all human emotion. He needed no friends in Montreuil either.

All that was done to him, Fantine was spared. That was why he surrendered himself. That was why he was so willing.

Still clutching the wet shirts to his chest, he fled the willow and the women sitting beneath, following the empty road back to Montreuil while in the distance, the bells of Saint-Saulve began ringing once more.


	17. Chapter 17

The conversation with Rivette had been enlightening—at least in so far that Javert was now more convinced than ever that if his arrest of Jean Valjean led to a transfer to Paris, he would have little difficulty progressing further.

Chief Inspector Gisquet, it seemed, had political ambitions as well—dreams that might have been out of the reach of most men in his position, but Gisquet had influential friends. His brother, of a more martial nature than the Chief Inspector, had been rewarded for his heroic deeds on the battlefield with a title by the Emperor. This Baron Gisquet’s son, having made a fortune at the bourse, was betrothed to a young woman who brought no money with her, but a title and a mansion in the Rue du Bac in the fashionable Faubourg St Germain.

Rivette had not known the details, but it was also said that the Chief Inspector had personally intervened in a recent case involving this family to save a member of the government from public embarrassment. Now, if Rivette was to be believed, the entire office whispered that the Chief Inspector would soon be elevated to the political sphere with the position of Secretary to the Prefect. And from there, with such influential men behind him, it was not far to the office of Prefect of Police…

This ambition was something Javert well understood. Furthermore, there had been a noticeable softening in Gisquet towards him after the spectacular case of the mayor of Montreuil, for which even the papers had found nothing but praise for the diligent work of the police.

Thus, Gisquet and he might be well suited to each other—and Gisquet’s promotion might well be turned into a promotion for Javert as well. Now that he had walked through the halls of the Prefecture once more, he ached for the authority the Chief Inspector wielded. To have a certain amount of authority in a provincial town like Montreuil was one thing—but to have those spies who had openly sneered at him stand up straight and take his orders, surely that would be a delight even greater than Valjean’s sullen surrender.

***

Noiraude was wet with sweat once more when he finally entered Montreuil. The sun had started to sink below the horizon; the last rays of sunlight set the spire of Saint-Saulve aflame. After Javert had left the boy who tended to the horses of the station-house with instructions to feed and water her well and let her rest the next day, he made his way over to the barracks.

There, the men and women were gathered around a small table, smiling and laughing—and Valjean was missing.

Javert frowned. “Where’s Valjean?” he demanded suspiciously.

The servants of the town had fallen silent upon his entrance. One of them nodded towards a door that led back into one of the bedrooms.

“Fetch him.”

A moment later, Valjean appeared. He seemed unsurprised by Javert’s presence.

“Hurry up,” Javert said brusquely. “Go and fetch my dinner from Madame Ringot.”

“Yes, sir.” Valjean calmly inclined his head.

The other men and women remained silent, and after one last suspicious look at them, Javert turned around to finally retire to his apartment. Valjean seemed to have hurried indeed; he entered only a few minutes after him, carrying a small iron pot the cook must have used to keep his dinner warm for his return.

Exhausted, Javert had sat down in the armchair by the stove. After Valjean had placed the pot on the table, he quietly came towards Javert and went to his knees without another order. Javert’s boots were dusty from the road and the long hours on horseback; Valjean grabbed hold of them and eased them off Javert’s feet. He set them aside, a questioning look in his eyes as he glanced at Javert.

“Leave them,” Javert murmured tiredly. “Clean them later. I want you at my side when I eat.”

Valjean nodded, looking unsurprised. When Javert stood, he readily came forward to take his coat. He hung it by the door and fetched Javert’s slippers, and then quickly set the table, pouring Javert a glass of wine before he served him the meal the cook had kept waiting for him all evening.

Javert was so tired he couldn’t even say whether the sparse bits of meat he found in the stew were pork or mutton, but the food was warm and hearty, served with half a loaf of a white bread to mop up the rich liquid. Javert sighed when his hunger was finally satisfied, then amused himself by feeding the remaining bread to Valjean, bit by bit.

To be surrounded by the sounds of the city, so different and yet so similar to the city of his youth…

He saw more clearly than ever the path that opened before him if he was just disciplined enough to devote himself to walk it against any obstacles. And now, there was Rivette, from whom he could glean information that would make his ambitions somewhat easier to achieve.

There’d been an excitement in that which he hadn’t felt since that moment he’d first laid eyes upon the mayor of Montreuil and seen the game that was about to start.

Still, even after all these days of having Valjean in his power, there was an almost electric sensation that overwhelmed Javert’s senses at the sight of Valjean’s shorn head, that strong neck bending, feeling lips warm and soft against his skin as Valjean took the offered morsels with the carefulness of a domesticated animal.

After the bread was gone, he trailed his hand over Valjean’s head again, lingering at his neck, his thumb stroking gently along a tendon.

“I hope you behaved while I was gone.”

It was strangely soothing to run his hand over the vulnerable skull, the skin warm beneath his touch. Valjean still flinched when his fingers found an old scar, but he seemed less tense.

“Get me more wine. And the letters that came while I was gone,” Javert demanded.

Despite his exhaustion, Javert at last moved back to his armchair by the fire. Tiredly sipping his wine, he went through the correspondence, while Valjean meanwhile settled on the floor with his dirty boots. It did not take long to read his letters; when Javert at last looked up, Valjean had finished brushing the dried mud from the leather and was now polishing them with a grease-stained cloth.

There was something strangely vulnerable to the lines of the strong body bowed over his work. Despite the strength of the broad shoulders and arms, Valjean’s neck was bent, shorn head and nape exposed to Javert’s gaze, for Valjean wore no cravat with his simple shirt of cotton.

It occurred to Javert all of a sudden how strange it was that this man, robbed of the rank he had so falsely inhabited, still exuded such a beguiling grace instead of the bestial roughness of the hulks. He’d thought to see Valjean degraded. Instead, even when Valjean had been bent over his bed with his buttocks exposed to Javert’s belt, his eyes wet with tears, there’d been something about him that intrigued Javert and fanned the hunger for his surrender.

“You’re a strange one, aren’t you?” he murmured as he stared at Valjean.

Valjean’s shoulder hunched at the address. A moment later, he hesitantly looked up.

“You’ve changed since the hulks. I really do believe that you yourself believed you were this Madeleine.” Javert shook his head, quietly surprised anew. “What were you in the hulks? An angry beast with no intelligence. But there’s some reason in you now. You’ve taught yourself enough to fool an entire town. Enough to fool yourself, maybe. Not me. But still. There’s reason in you. Reason that I believe understands who you are, and what your place is—but it struggles against that mulish obduracy.”

Valjean watched him from those silent eyes, the lines around his mouth deepening as his lips tightened, his eyes narrowing. Still, he didn’t speak out. Javert wondered for a moment whether that was already a result of his discipline.

He doubted that lesson would last. Still, Valjean could be taught, he’d proved that.

After a moment, when Javert didn’t speak, Valjean took up his work once more, but the formerly relaxed body now held itself tensely, the shorn head carefully averted so that Javert could not see his eyes as Valjean rubbed grease into the cleaned leather until it shone again.

At last, when the boots were spotless and yet Valjean still kept polishing, Javert spoke up again.

“Put that away,” he said. “Then come here.”

Valjean moved obediently enough, although the tension in his body hadn’t abated when he approached Javert. Javert smiled and allowed his legs to spread open, then pointed to the floor in front of him. His eyes still wary, Valjean sank to his knees. His head came to the height of Javert’s chest, who was amused to see Valjean’s gaze flicker instinctively towards his groin.

Observing Valjean had made him harden a little; still, he was exhausted after two long days in the saddle, and the wine hadn’t helped. Even so, he pressed the heel of his hand against himself, the motion more comforting than arousing, although there was pleasure in seeing Valjean’s eyes flicker down again, his pupils widening.

“Open your mouth,” Javert said.

This time, he could see Valjean visibly struggling.

“Oh, I’m not going to force you.” Javert reached out to trace Valjean’s bottom lip appreciatively while he ground his palm against himself. “You’ll offer it eventually. Once reason has won and you’re no longer blinded by that foolish stubbornness. You already know this mouth is mine, and you’ll offer it to me without that sullen look on your face. Willingly. _Happily_.”

Valjean stiffened, but even so he didn’t pull away. Still smiling, Javert touched Valjean’s tongue, tracing over it with two fingers, which Valjean allowed for all that his eyes had gone dark with that old stubbornness again.

Valjean’s tongue was soft and hot, and he suffered the intimate touch as well as his gelding would have. All in all, Javert thought, Valjean had been pleasing enough so far. He hadn’t acted up while Javert had been gone, which he had wondered about. But in that case, Gilbert would have had him whipped, or left chained in the barracks with a report on Javert’s desk.

Javert leaned back in his armchair again, releasing Valjean’s mouth as he studied him.

“Kiss me,” he then said.

The command seemed to confuse Valjean. Once again he hesitated, wary eyes meeting Javert’s in search of reassurance that he had heard right. When Javert remained relaxed, still smiling as he waited, Valjean faltered. Finally, his eyes still wary, he slowly came forward. It seemed to take ages until Valjean was at last close enough that he had to slightly tilt his head. Another heartbeat passed, and then Valjean’s mouth brushed against Javert’s.

For long moments, nothing else happened. There was only the chaste brush of Valjean’s lips against his own, the sensation of Valjean’s warm breath, and the scent of leather and grease that clung to him.

Finally, when Javert made no move, Valjean slowly pulled back, his browns drawn together, his eyes questioning.

“Not like that,” Javert said hoarsely. “Kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me the way I kiss you.”

Valjean swallowed. As Javert watched, his tongue came out to moisten his lips as if to stall for time. At last, Valjean came forward uncertainly, his hands on the arms of the chair, his waist between Javert’s spread thighs. Then their lips met once more. For a heartbeat, nothing happened—and then, just as hesitantly, Javert felt Valjean’s tongue nudge at his lips.

When Javert allowed his lips to part, Valjean’s tongue slid into his mouth, still as wary as a shy animal. Reluctantly, it slid against Javert’s own tongue, who made a soft sound of approval deep in his throat.

It was strange. Javert had half wondered whether giving Valjean the illusion of agency would rouse the old aggression in him—an aggression which had broken forth only days ago, after all. But there was nothing aggressive in this kiss. Valjean kissed as timidly as if he’d never done such a thing before. There was nothing seductive in him.

Javert allowed Valjean to set the pace, making no move of his own to take the lead, too intrigued by Valjean’s shyness and the undeniable pleasure of seeing this wary, stubborn man forced to actively kiss him instead of passively surrendering to Javert’s touch.

There was a great pleasure in seeing Valjean’s resistance wear away, bit by bit.

At last, his mouth filled by the taste of Valjean, Valjean’s tongue still in his mouth, Javert reached out and pressed his hand against Valjean’s chest. Valjean flinched at the unexpected touch, so that Javert’s lips twitched against Valjean’s mouth. Truly, Valjean was more skittish than a whipped horse.

After a moment, when nothing else happened, Valjean hesitantly began to kiss him again, his lips swollen and wet against Javert’s mouth. Javert spread his palm flat against Valjean’s chest. Just as he had expected, Valjean’s heart was racing in his chest, thudding against his palm. As wary as Valjean was—surely that wasn’t fear.

He reached down to gently press his hand against Valjean’s trousers and found his suspicion confirmed.

Valjean was half hard, and when Javert gently tightened his fingers around him, Valjean gasped a pained sound into his mouth. For a moment, Javert amused himself with slowly stroking Valjean’s cock, feeling it harden just as he could feel Valjean struggle not to pull back. He chased Valjean’s tongue back into his own mouth, sliding his fingers around the head of Valjean’s cock, then pushed his fingers into Valjean’s trousers.

“Do you want it?” he murmured against his lips, then laughed, hoarse and breathless, when Valjean finally pulled back.

“Do I have a choice, sir?” Valjean said. His lips were dark, gleaming with saliva; as Javert stared at him, he flushed and raised the back of his hand to his lips.

“If you want a beating, you just need to ask for it.” Javert laughed softly. When Valjean remained silent, Javert reached out to run his own finger along Valjean’s wet mouth. “You’re so shy. Not much kissing in the hulks then?”

Valjean stared at him again with that peculiar frown, then slowly shook his head.

Javert smiled. “Truly, I was the first to kiss you?”

After a moment, Valjean nodded shakily.

“I believe it. Don’t worry. You’ll come to enjoy it. You seem to like it well enough already.”

He cast a pointed look towards Valjean’s groin, and more heat rushed to Valjean’s cheeks.

Valjean was still kneeling between Javert’s spread legs. As he admired those bruised lips, Javert felt the weight of his authority and the power he wielded over this man rush through him once more like an intoxicating cordial. He could have anything he wanted of him. He could order Valjean even now to open his trousers and then teach him how to pay homage to Javert’s prick.

Still, there was something even more intoxicating about the sight of Valjean’s struggle and the way he slowly, inevitably surrendered himself to his fate.

“You have a sweet mouth,” Javert said softly. “It’s a shame it’s so filthy. But we’ll work on that. You’re smart enough to learn that lesson, aren’t you?”

Again Valjean struggled for a moment, then he swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Javert smiled again. “Good. Open your mouth.”

Again Valjean’s eyes widened. No doubt he remembered the sting of the soap. But even so, after a moment his swollen lips parted in weary obedience, his eyes watching distrustfully as Javert reached into his pocket.

Javert pulled out the small tin of candied violets from Toulouse, then carefully took hold of one sugared flower and placed it on Valjean’s tongue. Valjean’s eyes were following his every movement—just as he had, once, when he’d been in chains and Javert had circled him like the wolf its prey.

But it was true: as wary as Valjean was, there was none of that bestial instinct in him now that had once watched Javert with eyes full of barely bridled rage. Valjean now had more of the skittishness of an untamed horse than the ferocity of the wolf.

Javert ran his thumb over Valjean’s swollen bottom lip. “Good,” he murmured warmly, curving his hand around Valjean’s bare nape again.

Slowly, with a frown still on his face, Valjean closed his mouth and began to suck on the candied violet.

Javert leaned back in his chair again, ignoring the pleasant fullness of his cock as he watched Valjean, whose eyes were still on him as he hesitantly tasted his sugared treat. If anything, his frown had deepened at the sweetness of it, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t even looked away.

Truly, there’d been a lot of progress made—and Javert had no doubt at all that sooner or later, he’d have everything he wanted from him. And Valjean would give it willingly, just as he’d promised.


	18. Chapter 18

Work, for once, was sweet. The month had stretched with endless sunshine and bright, blue skies, warm days and balmy nights, and while the farmers of the area were busy bringing in the harvest, Valjean had not been forced, as he had dreaded, to labor on the fields among men and women who had once looked up to him.

Instead, he and Caillot had been sent to cut grass on meadows that belonged to the town, which they later bundled, once it had dried, and carried to the small stable behind the station-house. The hayloft was well stocked now. It had been a good year, there would not be a need to buy additional hay for the winter.

Not that that was a concern of Valjean’s anymore. There would be a new mayor soon, who would face these decisions.

Valjean stretched in the dusty, golden light that filled the interior of the stable. His body ached pleasantly, his senses full of the sweet scent of hay and the warm scent of the horses. One of the horses nickered; when he turned, he saw that Doré had curiously stretched his head out from his box.

Valjean moved closer and ran his hand up the gelding’s nose. His golden fur was brilliant in the light that fell in through the wide open door. Curiously, Doré nosed at his shirt.

“I don’t have anything for you,” Valjean said in apology. “But there’ll be hay enough for winter.”

“Talking to your horse, Valjean?”

Valjean stiffened at the familiar voice. When he turned around, Javert was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with a familiar, smug superiority.

When Valjean didn’t answer, Javert’s smile widened. “If you have the time to laze around here, you can make yourself useful. Brush him and get him ready for me. I want to take a look at those meadows before sunset.”

Quietly, Valjean did as he was told. Dust rose as he raked the brush over Doré’s coat. It rippled, dazzlingly bright in the sunlight. The gelding’s fur was warm to the touch, and he stood calmly as Valjean readied him for Javert, who watched without speaking.

It was almost comfortable. The realization made Valjean hesitate for a moment before he continued. But then, why wouldn’t it be? He’d never been afraid of work. There was nothing demeaning in this.

That part would come once the sun sank below the horizon and he’d find himself alone with Javert in his bedroom.

Javert stepped closer. Doré turned his neck towards him, nostrils widening as he eagerly inhaled. Javert reached into his pocket. A moment later, the gelding took a lump of sugar from his palm, exhaling in satisfaction as his teeth ground his treat. Javert ran his hand along his neck.

“The factory sold today,” he said conversationally. “Looks like they forgot to put you onto the list of the inventory.”

Valjean froze for a moment, then carefully forced himself to continue.

“Maybe the Prefecture has plans for you,” Javert murmured, straightening the gelding’s forelock, who snorted contentedly. “Or maybe they’ve forgotten about you. Given the size of this affair, I suppose you aren’t very important.”

Valjean ran his brush over Doré’s haunches until his fur gleamed like real gold, spotless and smooth. Javert had fallen quiet. He hadn’t moved away, but he also wasn’t continuing to speak.

A few silent minutes passed during which Valjean was achingly aware of Javert’s closeness and the small, quiet sounds of the horses. At last, when he straightened after having untangled bits of straw from Doré’s tail, he could hear Javert stepping closer. Javert’s hand came to rest on Valjean’s back. It was heavy and warm, even through the cotton of his shirt. As he stood silently, Javert’s hand splayed, his thumb tracing along his shoulder blade. Then it slid downward.

Valjean swallowed when he realized that he’d touched Doré just like this.

“Aren’t you curious who it sold to?” Javert asked.

He was close enough that Valjean could feel the heat of Javert’s breath against his nape. Javert’s hand was still sliding across his back, unhurriedly, just as it had slid along Doré’s neck with lazy admiration earlier.

“M. Robert bought it.” Javert huffed a soft laugh. “Even said he’d keep all the workers. You should have seen the town. They’re all hailing him as their savior. Give it a few week and no one will even remember that it once belonged to you.”

Valjean swallowed thickly. “I’m glad. M. Robert is a good person.”

“And quite interested in you the last time we met.”

Valjean didn’t have to turn around to know that Javert’s smile was widening.

“But if you think that you can appeal to him, you’re mistaken. He’s just given a little speech to everyone who’d gathered to hear the news about the factory. He apologized for falling prey to your lies. He took the blame for campaigning for you. And he also announced that he gives his support to M. Regnier as our next mayor.”

Valjean froze. Javert’s hand slid around his body, resting lightly against his chest as Javert moved even closer, so that Valjean found himself held in the mockery of an embrace.

“If you think that Robert is still so beguiled by you that he’d assist you in escaping your just punishment, you’re mistaken,” Javert murmured almost gently. “You understand that now, don’t you?”

Valjean exhaled after a long moment. “Yes, sir.”

It was for the best. It was what he’d wanted for Robert. And yet... there had been the note Robert had sent him. Had he changed his mind? Or was this part of Robert’s plan? He could not see how it might be. Regnier had been visibly upset when it was Valjean who had been made mayor. It was an honor he’d long coveted, and the position would surely have been his if Valjean had never settled in Montreuil.

In either case, there were other things to worry about. As long as Robert was prepared to assist Fantine and her child once her time was up, it didn’t matter so much what became of Valjean. His own punishment was earned, in the same way that Fantine’s wasn’t.

Javert’s hand rested against his stomach, warm and certain. Javert was warm against his back, too, his breath brushing against his nape. Held thus, Valjean could not help but think of the many nights he’d rested in Javert’s embrace just like this, Javert inside him. Even now, all it took was Javert’s touch to make his stomach contract, his breath speeding up as his body remembered the stretch, the overwhelming pleasure of Javert possessing him until he was panting, clawing at the bed like an animal.

His mouth went dry when Javert’s hand slid downward. Without a word, it slipped into his trousers. Javert made a soft, pleased sound when he found him half hard; in turn, a sound of breathless misery escaped Valjean when Javert’s fingers closed around him, his heart speeding up in anticipation.

Javert’s thumb sought out the tip of his cock, sliding around it; Valjean felt his balls ache in response, taut and eager, and he helplessly shifted beneath Javert’s touch.

Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world—as if someone couldn’t come in at any moment—Javert stroked him, Valjean bending his head and focusing on his harsh breathing. Doré was still standing patiently before him, unmoving as Javert’s hand slowly brought Valjean to life.

“There,” Javert said in the same calm, familiar tone with which he spoke to Doré. “You like that.”

Valjean shivered but didn’t answer, torn between wanting Javert to stop and the pleasurable ache building between his legs.

A moment later, Javert’s hand released him.

“Take off your shirt,” he said hoarsely, stepping back.

Hesitantly, Valjean turned around. His heart was racing in his chest. His lips were dry; he moistened them with his tongue as he looked warily at Javert.

Javert watched him, not speaking, his own eyes gleaming as he observed him. After a moment, very carefully not thinking, Valjean’s hands went to the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he pulled it off, keeping hold of it with one hand.

Javert stared at him. Finally, he came forward once more. He pressed his hand to Valjean’s chest, squeezing his muscles in appreciation, stroking up and down. Valjean could still hear himself panting for breath. It had been a long day of work in the sun; his skin was slick with sweat.

Both hands were now on him, following the lines of his chest, Javert’s eyes hot with intent. Valjean couldn’t look away as Javert’s hands explored him leisurely, appraising his strength.

“Truly, as strong as a Belgian stallion laboring in the fields,” Javert said hoarsely. The pad of his thumb grazed Valjean’s nipple. Valjean shuddered. Javert did it again.

The sensation was strangely electric, an aching pull that dropped low into his stomach. Valjean shifted, wanting to pull away, wanting to push forward into the touch. Javert’s thumb slowly circled his nipple, building pressure until Valjean exhaled heavily, his eyes closing as his body continued to thrum with nervous arousal.

“I could take you up into the hayloft. Would you like that?”

For a moment, Valjean refused to open his eyes, teetering on that edge where pleasure momentarily blocked out the shame of his surrender. A moment later, there was the sound of steps outside on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Flushing with heat, he hastily turned back to Doré, brushing the powerful haunches a second time while Javert laughed hoarsely.

“Another time then,” he murmured before he turned towards the door.

“Sir,” the familiar voice of Gilbert said.

Valjean kept brushing the gelding, praying that Gilbert had come with a message that would take Javert away from the stable. Instead, all he could hear was the welcoming nicker of the horses, and a box being opened at the other end of the stable.

“That’s enough,” Javert said after a moment. “Get him saddled.”

Valjean didn’t dare to stop to pull on his shirt once more. Instead, with it slung over his shoulder, he fetched the bridle, offering the bit to Doré on his palm, who took it willingly with a soft exhale of warm air. As Valjean closed the straps of leather, he could hear Javert chuckle softly. A moment later, a hand curved intimately around his hip and he felt Javert’s hot breath against his ear as he spoke.

“That’s what I call willingly.”

Valjean froze, his hand flat against the gelding’s neck, his stomach still taut with a sharp need that didn’t abate even now.

“Come on, hurry up,” Javert said more loudly a moment later. “You can accompany me to the meadows. The hayloft had better be full by the end of the week.”

When Valjean led a fully saddled Doré outside several minutes later, Gilbert was readying his own horse.

“Should be a good harvest this year, sir. Everyone says so. One of the miller’s apprentices was at the market this morning, says he can’t remember a year they’ve been so busy.”

“All the more reason to make certain this lot uses every single hour of good weather we’ve got,” Javert said in reply.

Silently, Valjean held Doré until Javert had mounted the gelding. He did not think he had anything to fear from Javert; they’d truly made good progress. Together with the hay that was currently drying in the sun, waiting to be bundled and carried up into the hayloft, they should have enough for the winter, although Valjean would be happy to keep going as long as there were meadows.

There was pleasure in the simple work, and although his hands and shoulders ached, it was a good day. It was utterly unlike the labor of Toulon. He worked in green meadows, beneath blue skies, the sun warm but not scalding his skin as it had in the south. He was bringing in a harvest of fragrant hay, provisions for the winter, and not mindlessly cutting rocks from morning to evening. And there were no guards to watch his every move, just the company of Caillot and the occasional appearance of one of Javert’s agents or a farmer to check on them.

If it wasn’t for his nights, he could have been almost happy.

***

There was another pot of barley stew awaiting them in the evening, carried home by the two women who were spending the week helping local farmers with the harvest.

Valjean was still washing the sweat and dust from his body when he heard the door to the barracks open. Hurriedly, he finished his washing and drew on clean clothes. Javert didn’t like to be kept waiting, and neither did the men he sent to fetch him in the evenings. But by the time he made it back into the small kitchen a minute later, the door was closed, and there was no one to be seen except for Caillot and both of the Fasquels.

“Seems like you’re in for a quiet evening for once,” Caillot said with a wry look. “She had it coming though.”

With sudden terror, Valjean realized that Fantine was nowhere to be seen.

“What do you mean?”

“Fantine gets to serve our Chief of Police tonight. To learn some proper manners, and how to respect authority,” Caillot said mockingly. “Tell me, Valjean, is that what he does? Teach you proper manners?”

Valjean didn’t reply. He stared at the empty chair, his throat closing as he was overwhelmed by sudden horror.

Impossible. Javert hadn’t once shown interest in her after Valjean had offered himself…

He clenched his hands, overwhelmed. There was nothing he could do, he knew that—it was Javert who held all the power here. But to think that he hadn’t only forced Fantine into a year of indentured servitude, but also…

He couldn’t taste any of the food as he ate mechanically. Afterward, he retired to his narrow bed. He tried to pray, but even that didn’t help; his heart was beating too fast, his chest tight. He couldn’t inhale enough air, and it felt as if there was a huge weight upon him, slowly crushing him.

It was many hours after sunset that he fell into an uneasy sleep from which he woke several times, haunted by dreams that made him shudder.

He was awake before the sun rose. Fantine didn’t return until they were all gathered in the kitchen, breaking their fast on bread and cheese. Valjean hadn’t touched his.

When the door opened at last, he felt his heart clench in his chest. Fantine didn’t look at him when she came in. Marie was the first to hurry to her side.

“Don’t ask,” Fantine said darkly.

A moment later, the door opened again. “Hurry up, you lot.” It was one of Javert’s men—Delrue, the agent Valjean liked least. He was very tall and lean, and prone to shout insults at them for all sorts of perceived slights.

Delrue closed the door with a loud bang after glowering at them, and Fantine hurriedly grabbed her breakfast. She still pointedly ignored Valjean, who could only watch her helplessly. How was it possible that just a day ago, he’d shivered, half wishing Javert would keep touching him?

Or perhaps, that was where he’d gone wrong. Had he told Javert that he wanted it, had he taken Javert’s hand and pulled him to the hayloft, might Fantine have been spared?

“Better be on your best behavior today, Fantine,” Caillot said with a raised brow. “Unless you enjoyed your lessons.”

Fantine gave him a devastating stare, then turned away to follow Delrue outside, shutting the door behind her with another loud bang.

Caillot chuckled. “I guess that’s a no.”

Valjean rose mechanically, realizing all of a sudden where he’d gone wrong. Javert might claim that he wanted his willing obedience—but that wasn’t why he’d singled out Fantine last night. It was because Fantine had acted up.

And there was a way to make certain that tonight, it was Valjean who’d be called to Javert’s apartment once more…


	19. Chapter 19

Javert was stretched out behind his desk. He’d just finished perusing the reports of the day—a vagrant had been arrested by Gilbert, and there had been a report of incendiary phrases used by one of the butcher’s apprentices in a wine-shop last night.

That would need further investigation. Tomorrow, he’d have to pay a visit to one of his informants, a man at home in Montreuil’s seedier taverns, who could be convinced with a small handful of coins to spend the coming nights listening to the conversations in the tavern known to be frequented by the butcher’s apprentices.

Javert had just finished putting the day’s reports away when the door to the station-house opened and Delrue came in, out of breath and red-faced.

“Sir,” he said sharply, without pausing to draw a breath, “it’s that convict, Valjean. He’s been picking a fight with one of the men. I saw him shouting at Gilbert myself. Would have had him whipped then and there, but—”

Javert hadn’t realized he was on his feet. “No. I’ll handle it myself.”

He could barely believe it. Weeks had passed since Valjean had been given into his power—weeks during which Valjean had been sullen, but remarkably obedient. It was true that Javert had wondered all along whether Valjean’s good behavior meant that sooner or later, some hidden plan would be revealed—but perhaps it was simpler than that. Perhaps Valjean had obeyed for as long as he could until his true nature showed itself once more.

It was curious. There was an actual sensation of disappointment at the thought. Valjean had done so well beneath his strict hand, for all that he’d needed to be encouraged along step by step.

But then, perhaps such setbacks had to be expected. Every now and then Valjean’s bestial nature would show, and he’d test the hand of his master. He’d be obedient enough again after a taste of the whip…

“Have him brought to me,” Javert said curtly, cleaning off his desk. The day’s work was done; the remaining work could wait another day. In any case, it was late. He would have retired to his own rooms soon enough. Valjean had merely given him a reason to finish for the day.

“Do you need any help with him, sir?” Delrue was asking. “I can bring him shackled—”

“Just bring him,” Javert snapped. “That’s all for today.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was some of that old sullenness in Valjean’s eyes when he finally stumbled into the room, Delrue asserting a firm grip on the back of his neck.

Javert had spent the preceding minutes contemplating his options. There was the whip, of course: Valjean knew the taste of it only too well. And yet it was too impersonal an implement for what Javert had in mind, and not suited to the severity of the infraction. Perhaps the time of the whip would come—Javert didn’t doubt that sooner or later, there’d be occasion for it.

For now, though, would not his belt do? Or perhaps a switch to break on Valjean’s back…

He was distracted from that line of thought by the sudden realization that Delrue was still in the room, leering at Valjean.

“That’s all, Delrue.” Javert waited until the man had left the station-house again before he stood and slowly approached Valjean.

“I think you know why you are here.”

Valjean’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. He remained silent. Javert couldn’t hold back a soft laugh at this enduring stubbornness.

“Tell me,” he said.

Valjean was glaring at him from heat-filled eyes. This was more like it—this was the Valjean he remembered from the hulks, with none of the false mayor’s meekness.

“I got into an argument, _sir_ ,” Valjean said, the word dripping with contempt. “Your men think they can treat me like an animal, but I’m no worse than they are. No worse than you.”

Javert drew in an amused breath, something in his stomach tightening with anticipation.

Seeing Valjean yield up his surrender step by hesitant step was sweet—but it would be just as sweet to crush this sudden rebellion in him.

“Go up into my rooms,” he said.

Valjean’s jaw clenched again, but after a moment, he obeyed. He was limping a little, favoring his right leg, Javert noticed. It was a pity the jail was occupied, otherwise he could have stripped him and strung him up there for an examination.

Once they had made it into his apartment at the top of the building, Javert closed the door and locked it. Then he leaned against the wall as he watched Valjean thoughtfully.

“Strip.”

Valjean turned to stare at him, his eyes for once filled with shame and hate.

“And if I won’t?”

“Then I’ll beat you and you’ll still strip, only you’ll be hurting.”

Valjean laughed despairingly. “You think I’m an animal,” he said in a low voice, “but it’s you who’s turning me into one. Sir.”

Nevertheless, his hands went to his shirt and pulled it off. A moment later, his trousers followed.

There was a nasty-looking bruise on his right leg. Had he started shouting at Delrue after the man had hit him, or had Delrue been beating him for his disobedience, Javert wondered, amused that it seemed to have taken only a few years of good living for Valjean to forget the discipline nineteen years in the hulks had instilled in him.

“Against the wall.”

Again there was a moment of hesitation. It was startling to see the difference between this sudden moodiness and the sweeter hesitation of the past days. Back then, there had been none of this obduracy in Valjean, and if he’d hesitated to kiss or to touch Javert, it had seemed to come from a genuine shyness, or a fear of the surrender he knew he’d have to give eventually.

These short moments of disobedience, on the other hand, had no such extenuating circumstances and seemed born only of that mulish resistance and hate of authority that was common to all the criminals Javert had seen end up in the prison hulks.

Valjean’s back was a latticework of old scars, stretching like a pale spiderweb across those broad shoulders. Javert raised a hand, then ran it down his back with deliberate slowness as Valjean shuddered. Just as slowly, Javert traced across the bruise that was beginning to bloom on his right thigh. Valjean made a pained sound, but didn’t try to move away.

“In the hulks, I thought this was a lesson impossible for you to learn.” Javert turned his attention to Valjean’s buttocks with appreciation. They were firm and round, and he dug his fingers into them before spreading them to bare Valjean’s hole. “Now, you’ve convinced me that you have reason enough to know better. Then why this sudden rebellion? You’ve managed to restrain yourself for all your years hiding in this town. But after a few weeks in my possession, you falter already.”

Valjean groaned when Javert ran a gloved finger down his crease. He rubbed it against the tight opening, then slowly forced it in dry, the muscle clenching desperately around him before it relaxed in sullen obedience. There was an old lesson Valjean’s body had learned well.

He hadn’t kept up the daily searches—Valjean hadn’t seemed desperate enough to try and escape. And of course, escape was impossible, here where everyone knew him, and would only make matters worse for him. Now, though, Javert penetrated him deeply while Valjean’s bare body shuddered.

The tight hole didn’t contain any hidden files or weapons. He hadn’t thought it would, but when he withdrew at last, Valjean’s head was bent, and there was a thin layer of sweat gleaming on his skin.

“Even your gelding knows to obey, Valjean, and he’s a beast, with less reason than you.” Javert laughed softly, reaching between Valjean’s legs to nudge his balls. It earned him a protesting sound, but Valjean immediately ceased any attempt to move away when Javert closed his fingers around the tender globes in warning.

“Is that it?” he murmured. “Is that why he’s so well-behaved, and you’re so stubborn?”

Valjean was breathing heavily. It seemed he’d already realized his folly in rebelling against Javert. Wasn’t that always the case with men like this?

“But as you’re so insistent that you’re no animal, I’ll expect you to control yourself. Unlike an animal, you know better. Don’t you?”

Valjean’s shoulders were rising and falling as he struggled to breathe. “Yes, sir,” he said at last, already less rebellious than before.

Javert smiled as he took a step back and loosened his belt. “You’ll learn,” he said. “It’s the part of you that’s all beast that’s acting up. But I’ll drive it out of you yet. You’ll be grateful in the end. I think a part of you already knows that’s how it has to be. Don’t you?”

This time, there was no answer, but Javert hadn’t expected it. It would come—in a few weeks, perhaps, or months. Valjean was stubborn. But he’d learn.

Javert drew the smooth, supple leather through his hand. Then he raised it, and when the belt came down, the surprise forced an agonized sound from Valjean’s throat.

Javert smiled. “Hold still.”

Again he raised his hand, and again the belt fell. Valjean shuddered as another stripe of red sprang up on his buttocks.

Slowly and methodically, Javert kept going. Every now and then, he shifted his stance, raining blows down on the back of Valjean’s thighs which made him wince and produce sounds that sounded suspiciously close to sobs. When the belt hit Valjean’s back instead, his entire body seemed to shudder, but all that escaped him were hoarse groans.

At last, Javert ran a thoughtful hand over the curve of Valjean’s buttocks again. The pale skin was now a bright red and hot to the touch. Javert dug his fingers into the temptingly round globes again and Valjean gasped in pain.

“And that was only my belt,” Javert said. “You remember what the whip feels like, don’t you? Thin leather that rips straight through your skin?”

Valjean was breathing heavily, his head hanging low, his arms tense where they held him up against the wall.

“I do,” he murmured a moment later, his voice soft with defeat.

Javert smiled and took a step closer. “Now. Was that worth it?” he asked, taking note of the way Valjean shivered at the sensation of his breath against his skin.

Valjean didn’t answer this time. Javert allowed his hand to slide around, resting it against Valjean’s stomach to feel the powerful body still heaving for breath. Valjean was slick with sweat. When Javert let his hand trail down, he found him soft, as he had expected.

“No, it wasn’t,” he answered for Valjean, using his fingertips to stroke along the soft, vulnerable length.

The only sound in the room was Valjean’s labored breathing. Valjean didn’t move when Javert patiently caressed him to hardness, smoothing back the foreskin at last to circle his fingers around the slick glans. Valjean’s breathing was loud and fast, and Javert rubbed his fingertip against the small slit until another drop of wetness escaped.

“There,” he murmured. “You know how to be good.”

Javert moved even closer. Valjean groaned softly when Javert pressed against the hot welts on his back, but he remained flushed and eager in Javert’s hand. Idly, Javert let his fingers trail down to his balls again, and Valjean gasped a sound of protest.

Javert felt his lips twitch. He pressed his mouth to the vulnerable skin behind Valjean’s ear.

“I want to fuck you, like this, with your skin hot from my belt. You’ll let me, won’t you?”

He curled his fingers lightly around Valjean’s slick cock again, and Valjean’s hips instinctively came forward as he thrust himself into Javert’s grip.

“What was that?”

Valjean groaned, rubbing himself against Javert’s hand.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Valjean? Are you going to lie down on my bed for me, the way you used to?”

Valjean’s head hung even lower, the muscles of his shoulders tense knots of steel as he panted, his cock sliding through the sheath of Javert’s fist.

“Yes, sir,” he gasped at last, his voice thick with tears. When Javert experimentally let go of him and took a step back, Valjean straightened painfully, still breathing hard.

He didn’t turn to look at Javert, who felt a momentary disappointment at having been denied the sight of his tears. But the sight that followed was just as intoxicating: Valjean moving onto his bed, his body still tense with pain as he moved to his hands and knees, his thighs sliding apart despite the bright stripes of red left by Javert’s own hand.

Javert moistened his lips as he stared, breathless at the sight.

Then he advanced, carelessly opening his trousers. He was achingly hard, his own prick already gleaming with the slickness of arousal, just like Valjean’s. When he knelt behind Valjean, Valjean shuddered but remained in his position.

Javert nudged his thighs a little wider apart. Valjean’s hole was red, a little swollen from his earlier attention.

“I could fuck you like this,” Javert murmured. “Isn’t that how you did it in the hulks? Nothing but spit to ease the way—and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

A shudder ran through Valjean at his words—but strangely enough, instead of protesting or perhaps begging, Valjean pressed back against him.

“What,” Javert asked despite his earlier teasing, surprised at last by Jean Valjean. “Is that how you want it?”

He’d thought to play with Valjean a little until he gave in and admitted that he wanted to be fucked using the oil. Instead, Valjean reached back and held himself open for Javert, showing off the tight, swollen muscle.

“I do,” Valjean said, his own fingers digging into his reddened skin. “Like this.”

“Really,” Javert murmured, running his hand thoughtfully down Valjean’s thigh. The welts were hot beneath his fingers, but although Valjean trembled, he didn’t move.

Then he shrugged. It made little difference to him, even though he still couldn’t see why Valjean would ask for something that would make it more painful for him. In any way, Valjean hadn’t earned a reprieve with his behavior; he’d be back working tomorrow, whether his arse was sore or not, and by this point surely he knew better than to imagine that Javert would be lenient with him tomorrow.

Javert spit into his hand, then smoothed it over himself. “I guess you’ll be even tighter like this, hmm? I’ll enjoy it either way.”

He patted Valjean’s reddened backside, then pushed the head of his cock against the clenched muscle. Valjean groaned softly when he pushed in, the tight hole yielding only reluctantly to him. Without the slickness of the oil, it took more force to open him up; Valjean was so tense that it was almost painful, and Javert could force himself no further than halfway inside.

With an appreciative groan, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Valjean’s shoulder, then began to take him with shallow thrusts. Little by little, he felt himself sliding deeper inside, Valjean’s insides clutching at him as if his body wanted to keep him there, despite the soft, aching sounds Valjean was making.

When Javert reached for Valjean’s cock, he found it in a sad, half-soft state, although now it began to reluctantly fill again with every shallow thrust.

“You still feel good,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb against the sensitive head until Valjean moaned helplessly and pressed back against him. “Yes, that’s it. You’ll take it all before you get to come.”

It took longer this way, but by the time he could finally bury himself to the hilt in the body that had only yielded itself with such reluctance, Valjean was back to full, hot hardness in his hand.

“See. I always get what I want.”

Valjean groaned in response, his body slick with sweat, his cock leaking wetness over Javert’s hand.

Javert kept his hand on him as he fucked him. In turn Valjean’s hips worked with him, alternately thrusting forward into his grip and pushing back to impale himself deeper on Javert. The feeling of the tight, hot clasp of Valjean’s body were intoxicating—but the sight of Valjean yielding to him, just as Javert had always known he would, was even sweeter.

Valjean came with a muted sob when Javert spilled himself inside him, and in reward Javert stroked him through his release until Valjean had stopped trembling around him. Then, at last, Javert released him to tiredly wrap his arm around Valjean chest, trailing his lips across the cluster of scars that adorned his right shoulder.

“There. Was that so hard? Perhaps the next time, you’ll think about whether your little rebellion is really necessary. Unless you like it like this, with nothing to ease the way?”

It seemed that the rebellious mood had left Valjean together with his climax. He didn’t reply, even though he gasped again when Javert finally pulled out of them, the motion eased now by his own release.

Valjean’s hole looked swollen and red, and when Javert touched him thoughtfully, Valjean made another miserable sound.

“Really, what was that all about?”

Valjean didn’t answer. Javert huffed an amused laugh against his skin. “You’re a strange man, Jean Valjean, do you know that? But you can’t outsmart me. I know men like you.”

Satisfied when Valjean let his head hang morosely, Javert at last moved away to collapse on the bed with a satisfied moan.

“Get me cleaned up,” he said lazily.

Valjean gave him another of those wounded looks from wet eyes, as if he thought that those might work on Javert. Javert felt his lips twitch at the sight.

“And then you’ll get off my bed and sleep where you belong. Even if you wanted to, you don’t deserve my bed tonight.”

Valjean swallowed before he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, and then did as he was told.

Javert watched from half-lidded eyes, still half-amused, half curious. He wasn’t entirely certain what had been behind Valjean’s strange behavior tonight. But he was a patient man. He could wait.

In the end, he’d have Valjean—all of him: his body, his full surrender, and all of his secrets.


	20. Chapter 20

The weather remained sunny for the rest of the month. Often now they were sent to mend the roads, bridges or crumbling walls that slowed the carts bringing in the year’s bountiful harvest, whereas Fantine and Marie would assist with the harvest or help keeping the laborers fed.

Valjean tried his best to keep focused on the task at hand. In the bright sunshine, it was easy to forget the nights in Javert’s apartment. The country all around him was beautiful at this time of year, the river, forest and fields more familiar after these years than the place he’d grown up in. The simple, hard work offered a satisfaction that the mayor’s office had lacked. There was no need to hide behind smiles out here—and no need to fear Javert’s suspicious looks now.

“They’d better hurry up,” Caillot said with a frown at the sky. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if the heat breaks at the end of the week. There’s a storm coming, mark my words.”

The sky was blue and there wasn’t a single sign of thunderclouds on the horizon, but Valjean felt an inner sense of unease that agreed with Caillot. As warm as the month had been, it couldn’t last. They’d brought in the harvest before the rain could fall: bulging sacks of wheat and oat, heavy bundles of straw and hay for the winter. And now that the initial rush of the harvest was over, the heat began to feel oppressive—no breeze coming in from the ocean, no wind bringing rain.

Valjean, who had lived in this rural town for many years, who had grown up among the endless forests of Brie and the orchards of Faverolles, silently agreed with Caillot. Such summer heat could only mean one thing. There was a thunderstorm coming, soon enough, with wind and rain and perhaps even hail.

And yet, the harvest was in. The farmers would have to keep an eye on the livestock, and perhaps there would be further bridges to repair for them—but all in all, Montreuil had rarely been in a better position to weather an autumn storm.

It was three days later when Valjean began to realize that the oppressive summer heat might indeed be coming to an end. Javert had sent him out with Caillot and Fasquel to repair a fence where only a day ago, one of farmer Hubert’s bulls had escaped and given chase to the post coach, scaring the travelers and scoring the wood of the coach with his horns.

The pasture ran along the forest, leafy boughs shadowing a stretch of fence that was unfortunately still whole. The bull’s escape had taken place where the fence followed the road the coach took. The three of them had been laboring in the scalding sun all noon, digging holes and erecting new, sturdy poles that would be able to withstand the bull’s anger.

“Coming, Valjean?” Caillot asked after giving the fence a last shake. The poles didn’t budge.

Valjean shook his head. “There’s a plank back there that’s beginning to rot. I’ll fix it while I’m here. You know Javert will blame me if that bull breaks through there next.”

Caillot laughed hoarsely in acknowledgment of the truth of his words. “Don’t take too long. If he’s asking after you, we’ll tell him where you are.”

Valjean was flushed from the exertion and the heat. He was glad of it now, because it hid the way his cheeks instinctively began to heat.

“Tell him if you want. I’m fixing the fence; it’s what he told me to do.”

“It’s your funeral.” Caillot chuckled but left it at that, picking up their tools before he and Fasquel slowly began to make their way back to the town.

Valjean walked to where he’d spied the rotting wood earlier. It didn’t take long to pry the plank free and affix a new one in its place. Then, after he’d carefully looked around to make certain that he was alone, he quickly slipped beneath the fence.

Beyond was a small brook. The musical tinkling of the rivulet had drawn his attention it earlier. Now, he hastily pulled off his clothes, making use of the rare privacy to wash himself.

The stones beneath his feet were cold and slippery. When he waded a little further upstream, he found the rivulet getting a little deeper where several large stones had created a natural barrier, behind which the brook formed a shallow pool. Even there, the water only reached to his knees, but it was refreshingly cold after the day of hard work in the sun.

With deep regret, Valjean forced himself to abandon the pool mere minutes later. It would not do to arouse Javert’s suspicions—not when all he had desired was a moment of solitude, to wash himself without the constant eyes on him. These moments of freedom were rare enough. He knew that Javert only trusted him with them because escape from this part of the land where everyone knew him was impossible. Still, this freedom was more than he’d had in the hulks He would be a fool to risk it all.

When he made his way back out onto the fenced meadow to gather his tools, the air seemed to stand still. The sky above him looked strangely glassy. He hesitated for a moment, casting a worried look at the sky.

And then there was a sudden breeze—the first hint of wind he’d felt all week. In the distance, he could now see clouds begin to form—even in the moment he had stood there to watch, they seemed to visibly advance towards him.

Valjean shoved his hammer and nails into his bag and began to make his way back towards Montreuil.

Even before he’d made it halfway back, the temperature had dropped noticeably. The wind had picked up. There was a strange tension in the air; Valjean could almost taste it on his tongue. It was as if all of nature had come to a nervous standstill around him, waiting in fearful anticipation.

The once so distant clouds now covered the sky, grown to an enormous size. They were dark, and once or twice, he’d heard the low roll of distant thunder. Hubert’s irritable bull, a proud beast with a muscular body that gleamed in the summer heat, stood on the other side of the fence, glaring at him. At the first sound of thunder, it lowered its head, shaking it in irritation.

Valjean bit his lips as he glanced at the sky again. He wouldn’t make it back to Montreuil before the storm broke. There was at least half an hour of walking left, perhaps more…

Just when he’d stopped to look around, wondering if he should search for shelter instead, there was the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Valjean drew himself up straight, the hair at the back of his neck pricking up.

He wasn’t even surprised when the horse that finally came around the corner was Javert’s bay mare.

Valjean waited quietly for Javert to draw up by his side. Behind the fence, the farmer’s fractious bull exhaled loudly, pawing at the ground; Javert’s mare cocked an ear in its direction, then ignored the bull, too well-trained to be distracted from her task.

Valjean smiled wearily. He didn’t doubt that Javert wished he were as docile as that horse.

“You didn’t come back with the others.”

Valjean shrugged in response, suddenly too weary of this game to pretend. “There was another part of the fence to fix. I could see the wood was rotting. I didn’t need their help for it, so I told them to go back—and to say that I’d be along shortly, if someone asked.”

Javert gave him a dark look, although the tools Valjean still carried and the fact that he was indeed on his way back from the broken pasture fence seemed to be enough to keep Javert from calling him a liar.

“You’re wet,” Javert pointed out next.

Self-conscious, Valjean smoothed a hand along the stubble growing atop his head.

“I washed in the rivulet after I was done, sir,” he said tiredly. “I was sweaty.”

Javert’s eyes continued to linger on him, their weight as oppressive as the summer heat.

For a moment, Valjean thought that Javert would accuse him of trying to bide his time out here in order to escape whatever work was waiting for him next. Instead, Javert remained silent, his eyes raking up and down Valjean body as his tongue moistened his lips.

They watched each other, neither of them speaking. Valjean could feel pressure building inside him, something tightening in his stomach at the thought of what that gaze meant for him.

The mare’s ears turned back with uncertainty, unsettled by the way Javert’s hands visibly tightened around the reins. Then the wind increased in force, a sudden gust picking up leaves that had only begun to turn yellow, sending them flying through the air between them. Instinctively, Valjean looked at the sky, which had turned dark with a frightening rapidity.

At the very same moment, a flash of lightning rent the sky, followed by a boom of thunder so loud that it seemed to make the earth tremble beneath him.

A heartbeat later Valjean realized that the tremor hadn’t been caused by the thunder.

A loud crash made Valjean turn in instinct, only to see the maddened bull attack the fence once more. Wood splintered as the beast’s horns gouged the planks that contained it—and then another boom of thunder followed, as loud as a cannon, and with it the scream of a horse.

Startled by the bull’s sudden attack, Javert’s horse had reared up. Javert was still on its back, his face a grimace of furious determination as he clung to the mare, tightening his grip on the reins.

Again the bull crashed into the fence, which had resisted his madness so far. Still on her hind legs, Noiraude took a jump to the side.

Everything happened so fast that Valjean was still frozen, watching in sudden horror when one of the horse’s hind legs lost its footing. In her terror, she’d tried to escape the bull—and her jump had led her perilously close to a small ditch into which her left hoof was now sliding. Even as Valjean watched, she lost her balance and went down.

“Javert!”

Valjean was by his side in a second, taking care to avoid the panicked horse’s flailing limbs, praying that Javert wouldn’t be crushed beneath her as she toppled. But Javert, it seemed, had realized what was happening as quickly as Valjean.

Just in time, he’d jumped from her back. Javert hit the grass, the impact forcing a groan from him—but even then, he didn’t let go of the reins which he still held clutched in one hand.

Javert was up before Valjean could reach out for him. Ignoring both Valjean and the bull, he grasped Noiraude’s reins with both hands, planting himself in front of the panicking horse’s head.

“Come on, get up!” Still panting for breath, Javert gave the reins an encouraging pull. “Get up!”

Noiraude snorted, the white visible as her large eyes rolled in terror. Foam flecked her mouth as she let out an inhuman groan. Valjean’s eyes went back to the bull, half expecting to see the beast break free at last.

But even though wood had splintered from the planks he had attacked, the fence still stood. The beast behind it was staring at them from crazed eyes, pawing the ground as foam dripped from its own mouth.

How much longer would the fence hold?

“Up, Noiraude—yes, just like that!”

Behind him, Javert was still encouraging the horse to gather her legs beneath her.

Another flash of lightning filled the sky with a brilliant glare, followed almost immediately by the booming thunder that had set off the bull’s madness in the first place.

With a low sound of anger, the beast took a step back, still eyeing Valjean as if it blamed him for the storm—and then, as if a dam had burst, rain began to fall so heavily that Valjean was soaked to the bone within a heartbeat.

The bull shook his head again, looking confused. The rain came down with such force that it was hard to see. For a moment, it seemed as if the bull would charge again, and Valjean took an instinctive step towards Javert—but with a frustrated grunt, the animal at last ambled away to where, perhaps, a shelter was waiting for him.

They needed shelter as well, Valjean realized when another jagged bolt of lightning lit up the sky. It was dangerous to be out in the open in a storm like this—and the wind was still picking up in force.

Valjean gritted his teeth, then slid into the ditch which the horse was still struggling to escape.

Praying that in her terror, she wouldn’t kick him with her iron-shod hooves, he turned and pressed his back against her rump. Javert was still encouraging her to get out of the ditch, and finally, with a deep groan that made her body shudder, Noiraude found her footing in the slippery mud. With a jump, she made it up onto the bank of grass where Javert was standing, who still kept a tight grip on her reins. When Valjean clambered tiredly after her, he saw that her entire body was shaking. Worse, she kept lifting one of her hind legs.

Javert encouraged her to take a few steps forward, then cursed. The mare still refused to put weight on her leg. As Valjean watched, Javert moved to crouch by her side despite the pouring rain, feeling along her leg. When he rose, his face was grim.

“Not broken,” he said at Valjean’s questioning glance. “But she’s hurt herself regardless. We’ll have to lead her.”

Just then, another boom of thunder made the ground shake. Noiraude’s ears were flat against her head as she danced on three legs before the pain of her injury forced her to stand still again, her head hanging low.

“We need to find shelter,” Valjean said.

Just then, another bolt of lightning arched across the sky—and this time, another bolt split from it and raced towards the ground, where it hit a tree in the forest that stretched beyond the pastures.

“Quickly,” Valjean added, casting a worried look at the open fields and meadows surrounding them.

There was the occasional tree growing by the side of the path that led back to Montreuil, but nevertheless the land was mostly flat here. It offered no shelter from the storm—and worse, it made them targets for the violent lightning that made the air taste acrid on his tongue.

“It’s because of you that we’re in this mess,” Javert said. “Don’t think I’ll forget that.”

Valjean didn’t bother biting back the wry smile that spread across his face in resignation. Trust Javert to find a way to blame him even in a situation like this.

“The storm is picking up in force, sir.”

Once more loud thunder filled the air as if to underline his words. Noiraude shuddered, and Javert ran his hand along her neck.

“Come along then,” Javert said. His heavy coat was already soaked through with water; he ignored it as he strode back onto the path, Noiraude slowly limping along.

Valjean didn’t dare to protest when Javert led them back into the direction he’d come from—further away from Montreuil. But when they passed a narrow path that led out towards the fields to the north, he realized what Javert’s intention was.

There was a barn there, which Robert had once used as a stable for the horses he’d kept on meadows that were now fields. The stable still stood: during harvest time, it stored the grain and straw before it would be taken to his mills.

When they made it there twenty long minutes later, both soaked to the bone and Noiraude following tiredly, it loomed before them, a dark silhouette against the sky still lit by glaring lightning. Valjean was as glad to see the rickety shed as a weary traveler entering Montreuil’s finest inn.

Inside, the barn was dark, the air filled with dust. When Javert closed the door after them, it fell shut with an ominous creak. The sound filled Valjean with deep relief and gratitude.

Outside, the storm was still raging. Rain came down hard onto the roof of their shelter; every now and then, thunder made the wooden structure rattle.

With another curse, Javert flung his soaked hat and coat away. “Hang them up to dry. And then wipe the horse down.”

Valjean obeyed quietly. He found a beam to spread Javert’s clothes over, then removed the tack from the mare who was standing quietly in one of the boxes that still remained, her head hanging low in exhaustion, her hind leg held up slightly to keep her weight off it.

Valjean crouched by her side for a moment to carefully draw his hand along her leg. Her skin was hot to the touch now, the lower part of her shin swollen—but beneath, he could feel the reassuring solidity of the long bone, with no fracture his fingers could make out.

Given time, she would recover.

He turned away from her to grab a handful of straw, twisting it up into his hand, then using it to scrape the water from her coat. Once the worst of the rain was gone, he used more of the dry straw to give her a vigorous rubbing. It left her with small pieces of straw stuck to her fur, but when he was done, she was no longer dripping with wetness. It was as comfortable as they could make her for the duration of the storm.

When he left her box, he became suddenly aware of his own wet clothes that were still dripping water.

The stable was quiet. Somewhere above, there had to be a window. Sparse light came in through it, as well as the scent of wet soil.

In the twilight, he could see that Javert had been observing him. He’d placed himself on a bale of straw—and he’d taken off his own, waterlogged clothes.

Valjean found his throat go dry as he watched a drop of water run down Javert’s chest. Embarrassed, he looked away, but even so the image was burned into his mind, his heart racing all of a sudden for no reason.

“Take off your shirt,” Javert said quietly.

Valjean hesitated for a long moment. Then his fingers went to his shirt and he drew it off slowly, his eyes returning to Javert despite himself while heat flooded his cheeks.

Javert was watching him calmly. There was not enough light to make out the look in his eyes, but even so it was hard to look away from him. Valjean found himself unable to move as he watched Javert, his chest rising and falling rapidly even though it had been no great exertion to wipe Noiraude down.

Javert in turn did not speak. He watched him intently, and Valjean found his gaze drawn to Javert’s chest again and again, where droplets of water kept leaving gleaming tracks as they made their way downward.

At last Javert smiled. “Go up into the hayloft,” he said softly, and Valjean found himself swallowing before he could tear his gaze away from the hypnotic display, images of the gleaming droplets still on his mind even as he reached out for the narrow ladder.


	21. Chapter 21

Rain kept falling incessantly, drumming against the roof above them. There was a window in the hayloft; through it, air came in that smelled of wet soil, and enough light to see Javert clearly.

Valjean watched as Javert looked around the small space, then seated himself on a bale of hay. His motions were fluid; he seemed completely at ease with his nudity, exuding an easy authority even without the cover of his greatcoat and hat.

In the twilight up here, Valjean could see another drop of water run down Javert’s chest. He turned away, inexplicably embarrassed, his throat tight.

There was nothing else to look at. The hayloft was well filled with hay and straw for the coming winter months. Particles of dust danced in the air. There was no sound but that of the rain and the wind outside. Valjean felt the breeze that came in through the window cool his own skin. He shivered instinctively, crossing his arms.

“Come here,” Javert said softly after some time had passed.

Valjean found himself obeying as if in a dream, his throat still tight. He brushed his palms against his thighs, but his trousers were soaked with water as well.

Javert smiled a little. “Take them off.”

Again Valjean hesitated. At last, he followed slowly, his face heating even though this was far from the first time Javert had seen him strip.

Glad to have a reason to turn away from the unsettling sight of Javert spread out before him, skin glistening with moisture, Valjean took hold of the dripping trousers and found a beam of wood to spread them out over. Then, reluctantly, he forced himself to face Javert once more.

“Come here,” Javert said again.

Valjean couldn’t say what made him so wary of approaching Javert after all these weeks. Javert had taken what he wanted—how many times had he had Valjean in his bed?

Still, something about the stillness of the stable and Javert’s relaxed mood set his nerves on edge. Perhaps it was merely the storm that was still raging all around the shed that sheltered them. Nevertheless, it seemed almost impossible to face Javert—and when his eyes at last came to rest on him again, Valjean felt his chest go tight again, something making it hard to breathe.

Javert had stretched himself out on the dry hay, all confident, long-limbed elegance. He still bore himself with the arrogance of a man dressed in bourgeois finery—and yet, instead of rings or a golden watch-chain, all that adorned his body were the droplets of water still gleaming on his skin, dripping down into the hay in shimmering rivulets whenever he moved.

Valjean swallowed, but followed obediently when Javert took hold of his hand and pulled him down. He stretched out on the dry hay by Javert’s side, his heart pounding in his chest for a reason he could not understand, for Javert did not seem to be in a bad mood.

Javert ran a hand up his side, then curved it around Valjean’s back. “There. As good as a blanket. You’ll keep me warm, I wager. After all it’s your fault we were trapped in the storm.”

“I didn’t make the bull attack,” Valjean said. “And the fence held, sir.”

A smile tugged on Javert’s lips again. “It did,” he said lazily, shifting against Valjean, his hand slowly tracing down Valjean’s back.

Javert’s skin was warm. His touch made something within Valjean tense, although Javert’s mood had not changed. He had not threatened Valjean with a whipping; if anything, his mood seemed to have improved even more now that they were resting side by side in the hay.

“Touch me,” Javert said softly.

After a moment, Valjean hesitantly curved his hand against Javert’s upper arm. Javert’s skin was wet, but warm to his touch. He remained relaxed when Valjean slowly drew his hand down his arm, then up to his shoulder. Warily, Valjean then allowed his hand to trail over his back; Javert remained completely at ease beneath his touch. Despite his slighter stature, there was nothing weak about Javert; Valjean could feel an echo of the rigidity with which he held himself in the lean, hard muscles he could feel beneath the soft skin.

Javert’s back was smooth. All his fingers encountered were the ridges and valleys of his spine. For all that Javert had been born to criminal parents, he had never felt the brutality of what he called justice.

The thought made Valjean swallow again, his exploration faltering for a moment—but when he looked up, he saw that Javert was not watching him. Javert’s eyes were closed, his features relaxed. Had he ever seen Javert like this before?

A heartbeat later, Javert made an encouraging sound and Valjean hastily tore his eyes away.

He drew his hand around to slowly slide down Javert’s chest, his fingers mapping the hard plane of muscle there. No, Javert wasn’t weak. Still, he lacked Valjean’s strength. He never could have done what Valjean had in Toulon. Even now, it would be easy for Valjean to overwhelm Javert. Was it not strange that Javert was not frightened of that if he was so convinced that Valjean was a dangerous man?

How was it that Javert could trust him enough to allow this, and yet fail to see that Valjean had changed? That he was still trying to change?

Slowly, Valjean pressed his palm against Javert’s chest, his fingers spreading out. Javert’s skin was very warm after the cold rain. Valjean could feel the thudding of Javert’s heart, feel the bone of his ribcage, the lean muscles of his stomach when he slid further down.

Javert’s stomach shifted when Valjean kept hesitantly tracing along the sinew and muscles that formed a strange map of hills and valleys. It was a living map, morphing in time with Javert’s breathing. More than ever, Valjean was aware of the way Javert’s heart had thudded against his ribcage.

They were not so different, no matter what Javert might think. No—without their clothes, they were one and the same. Both men. Both living, breathing. Nothing more.

Beneath his hand, Javert suddenly shuddered. A raindrop had fallen from Valjean’s wet hair and splashed onto Javert’s chest. As Valjean watched, another drop fell. For a heartbeat it gleamed like a diamond on Javert’s chest; then he took another breath, his chest rising, and the droplets ran downward, leaving behind a shining path of wetness.

Javert exhaled, his chest falling. Another drop fell.

This time, before Javert could inhale again, Valjean found himself leaning closer. Javert’s skin was hot when he pressed his mouth to it. The droplet of water was cool against the tip of his tongue.

Javert’s chest continued to rise and fall, more rapidly now. Valjean slowly followed the gleaming path of water with his mouth, his own heart racing in his chest. Somewhere above, the wind was howling around the roof, the rain still beating against the roof. These were the only sounds that filled the hayloft. When Valjean breathed in, he could now smell the warm scent of Javert’s skin beneath the scent of hay and wet soil. He could taste him on his tongue as well, warm and faintly salty beneath the clear, cold taste of the rainwater.

There was another flash of light. Moments later, the echoing rumble of thunder followed. Valjean’s tongue, which had hesitantly traced the rivulet that ran down Javert’s chest, suddenly encountered a small nub of warm skin; at his touch, the nub hardened and Javert shifted beneath him with a soft gasp.

Without thinking, Valjean found himself repeating the touch. This time, Javert’s hand came up, lightly curving around his shoulder as Javert moaned again. Javert’s nipple was tight and hard against Valjean’s tongue. When Valjean hesitantly slid his hand over Javert’s chest again, he found it rising and falling more quickly now, the beat of his heart a rapid tattoo.

When Valjean looked up, he saw that Javert’s head had sunk back into the hay. His throat was exposed, his eyes closed, the commanding lines around his mouth relaxed for once.

Javert wasn’t watching him. Javert wasn’t holding onto him to keep him in place either.

Like this, Javert looked strangely vulnerable, all gleaming, smooth skin stretched out in abandon. And it was Valjean who had brought this change about. Valjean who had made Javert forget himself, who’d made his chest heave and his heart race and his eyes close as he arched into Valjean’s touch…

Suddenly, Valjean became aware of something else.

Against his thigh, he could feel that Javert had hardened. When Valjean looked down he could see him, swollen with blood.

Again Valjean hesitated. Finally, slowly, he allowed his hand to slip downward, tracing past Javert's smooth stomach until he encountered the coarse curls that surrounded the base of his prick. Once more he gave Javert a wary look, but Javert's eyes were still closed, his body relaxed.

Valjean closed his fingers around Javert. He was shockingly hot in Valjean’s hand, and when he stroked him, Javert moaned in appreciation.

Valjean swallowed, staring at Javert's hard shaft. Then he leaned back over Javert again, licking his lips uncertainly before he touched his tongue to Javert’s hard nipple once more.

The caress brought him another pleased moan, Javert's cock pulsing in his hand as he stroked him. Valjean's chest felt tight again, his own heart racing although so far, Javert had not uttered a single command. Even if he had--they were alone, Javert was naked, without a weapon. Was it truly Javert who had the upper hand right now?

Then Javert shifted, and this time it was Valjean who gasped, shuddering helplessly as he realized that he was just as hard as Javert. Javert's thigh had brushed against his cock. Heat surged through him, something clenching painfully in his stomach. With his hand running up and down the burning length, Valjean mindlessly pressed closer.

“Here. Do it like this,” Javert murmured a moment later, rolling slightly towards him until his cock slid against Valjean's. He took hold of Valjean’s hand and put it where they were rubbing against each other. 

Valjean was too overwhelmed to think. He could barely breathe. Instinct made him tighten his fingers around the both of them, and when he stroked them together, Javert moaned again in approval. Valjean could only gasp for breath, his own hips straining forward as Javert's cock slid against his own. It felt smooth like silk and burning hot.

Javert gave him a low, breathless laugh in response. “Good. Now kiss me again.”

Blindly, Valjean pressed his mouth to Javert's, gasping against his lips. Javert's mouth was hot too, and when Javert's tongue slid into his mouth, Valjean opened for it with an eagerness that would have embarrassed him if he hadn't been too overwhelmed by the sensation of his cock sliding against Javert's.

Javert's arm wrapped around his shoulder, holding him close. Javert's tongue slid against his own, and when Valjean moaned brokenly, Javert swallowed the sound, his hand digging into his shoulder to pull him even closer.

Valjean was trembling, thrusting against Javert again and again, his hand running down Javert’s back to hold him closer while he stroked them. He could feel Javert’s heart racing, his breath coming in little pants against his own mouth, no sound audible but that of the wind driving the rain against the window. Javert’s cock was as slick as his own as he squeezed them together, tightening his fingers. The sensation made him cry out into the kiss, trembling as he found his release like that, Javert’s seed mingling with his own as it erupted hot across his knuckles.

For a long moment, Valjean could only gasp for breath, his mind pleasantly blank. Javert was warm against him, the hay soft. Outside, the storm was still raging, although the time between the flashes of lightning and the boom of thunder revealed that the storm was at last moving away from them.

Perhaps Valjean fell asleep. When he opened his eyes next, the howl of the wind had ceased. While it was still raining, water was no longer drumming loudly against the roof above them. Despite a cool breeze coming in, Valjean wasn’t cold. He was resting against something warm and soft—Javert, he realized a moment later, his heart beating faster.

Javert seemed to have nodded off as well—his eyes were closed, at least, his features relaxed.

Valjean had never seen him so vulnerable before. Valjean remained motionless for a while, watching Javert.

Javert’s chest was rising and falling slowly. For some reason, Valjean’s arm rested across his chest. Beneath his hand, Valjean could feel the hard bones of Javert’s ribcage—and there, not far from where his fingers had come to rest, he could see a small nipple. It was soft now, a round, flat nub. Valjean swallowed as he remembered how hot Javert’s skin had felt, how the nub had hardened when he had touched his tongue to it.

This time, there was no water glistening on Javert’s chest. The sweat had dried on their skin. Still, there was something strange to the relaxed smoothness of Javert’s body. Even now, it was hard to look away from it.

Perhaps it was simply the fact that without his uniform, without the gun or the iron around Valjean’s wrists, they were exactly the same. The only memories Valjean had of such physical closeness, of the press of warm bodies against his own, were from the countless nights in the prison hulks.

But this time, there were no hard planks beneath him and no chains on him. There was no cudgel in Javert’s hand either.

Experimentally, Valjean moved his arm a little. Javert’s skin was pleasingly warm beneath his fingertips. His throat tight, Valjean watched himself circle Javert’s nipple with the pad of his thumb. Javert exhaled heavily, and the flat disk began to tighten.

A moment later, Valjean realized what he was doing and hurriedly released Javert.

His heart was hammering in Valjean’s chest again. The air felt stiflingly warm beneath the roof. It took a moment until Valjean realized that incongruously, his own body had slowly begun to rouse.

Swallowing heavily, he rolled to his side, facing away from Javert. This way, he could see the window. Rain was still falling against the glass, but he could no longer make out the flashes of bright light.

Between his legs, his body was still aching with a diffuse longing.

In all those years in the hulks, he’d never touched another in such a way. Chained side by side with hundreds of men, he’d never once felt the need to reach out and embrace them. What had come over him just now?

Earlier, he’d given Javert what he’d expected. That was the deal he’d made. There was a reason for his surrender—a woman and an innocent child who were both suffering because of him.

But right now, Javert was asleep. Nothing had been asked of Valjean. Any other man he’d known in the hulks would have used this moment to escape.

There was no escape for Valjean, not with Fantine’s fate depending on him. Still, he’d touched Javert. He’d wanted to touch him. Even now, something was thrumming nervously in his body.

Helplessly, Valjean closed his eyes, burying his face in his hands. Even now he could see the strangely vulnerable expression on Javert’s face—Javert, who was sleeping against him so trustingly, as if he were just another prisoner chained in the hulks.

But he wasn’t. This was Javert, to whom Valjean was little more than the injured horse waiting patiently below.

“You’re awake? Good,” Javert murmured sleepily, interrupting his thoughts. A hand came to rest lightly on Valjean’s buttocks. “Looks like the worst is over.”

Something seemed to clench around Valjean’s throat, despair rising up in him together with the heat in his blood. 

“How can you bear it?” he asked desperately, throwing himself around to face Javert. “To touch me like this—to kiss me—and to treat me as if I’m less than an animal?”

His abrupt motion had taken Javert by surprise. He’d reached out, his hand now resting against Valjean’s chest. Valjean, in turn, was holding himself upright with his hands against the hay—one to each side of Javert’s face. He was half covering him with his body, Javert beneath him, Valjean’s half-hard cock nestling against Javert’s.

For one shocked moment, Valjean found himself staring into Javert’s eyes as his cock continued to harden. Then, hastily, Valjean reared back, shame rearing up inside him as his heartbeat echoed in his ears.

“Whatever you think I am, I’m not!” Valjean’s desperate voice echoed through the empty barn, suddenly too loud in his own ears. He hunched his shoulders, moving further back until he was kneeling in the hay, their bodies no longer touching.

Even now, his body was thrumming with nervous tension, the ache between his legs stubbornly alive. Valjean dropped his hands into his lap to cover himself, the only sound he could hear that of his own rapid breathing.

“I’m not,” he asserted more quietly—but this time, he found it hard to believe his own words.


	22. Chapter 22

Valjean still towered above Javert, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. Even now, sated as he was, Javert felt a twinge of lust at the thought that all this straining, masculine strength was at his command.

He reached out to touch Valjean’s shoulder, ran his hand across the hard chest, muscles flexing against his skin. “Aren’t you?” Javert asked with a slow smile. “The finest steed I’ve ever ridden, that’s for sure.”

The lines around Valjean’s mouth deepened at his words, his eyes darkening—that sullen, mulish look of hurt had become familiar by now. 

Javert slowly stroked Valjean’s chest, enjoying the firmness of his pectorals. “I wouldn’t offer an animal a place in my bed. Of course, you say you don’t want that place.”

Valjean’s jaw tightened, but beneath his palm, Javert could feel the rapid beating of his heart.

“And I’ve told you not to shout at me. If you’re more than an animal, you’d be able to keep that vile temper in check.” He traced Valjean’s ribs with his hands, feeling the powerful body breathe in and out. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want to be an animal. But if that’s truly the case, you wouldn’t constantly fight me.”

“You know I’m not.”

The words were hoarse, Valjean shaking beneath his touch. Was he fighting the urge to lash out even now?

“You forget that I know what you were like in the hulks,” Javert said. “You were a beast, all instinct and aggression—only held in check by beatings which instilled a small amount of discipline in you.”

Valjean turned his face away at that, squeezing his eyes shut instead of shouting at him for once.

Javert curved his hand around Valjean’s neck. At the flexing of the powerful muscles beneath his grip, he licked his lips. “I told you I was wrong about you. You were a beast then—but you were smart enough to fool an entire town. Smart enough to run a factory, to play at being magistrate. What reason there is, you used for lies and deceit. You say you are more than a beast? Then I expect you to fight those instincts—to be grateful for my discipline.”

Valjean’s throat worked again. Javert could see him visibly fighting himself. When he spoke, his voice was rough, but he had clearly mastered the urge to shout.

“You have known me this past year. You saw me every day. People respected me. I was no beast, no monster—I did good. For this town; for everyone in need.”

“Like you did for that woman—Fantine?” Javert laughed hoarsely. “You committed crime after crime by using a false name. Every document you signed is worthless, no better than a forgery. You know very well what you are. What you’ve done. And so does everyone else now.”

Beneath his touch, he could feel the shudder that ran through Valjean. As always, the man flinched away from the truth.

“So this is all for my benefit then?” When Valjean turned his head towards Javert again, the lines around his mouth were still sharp, his brow furrowed with disbelief. “All of _this_...”

He swallowed and broke off, and Javert laughed.

“No. You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But this isn’t about you. It never was. It’s about me. About what I want. What I deserve. I’ve worked long and hard to be where I am, and I won’t be denied what a man in my position is owed. Least of all by you.”

Valjean’s tongue came out to moisten his lips. Javert found himself following the glistening path of it with his eyes. For a moment, he thought that perhaps, Valjean had learned his lesson well enough—but then, of course, Valjean had to speak again.

“And this is something I owe you? Sir,” Valjean added belatedly, with enough irony in it that on another day, Javert might have been tempted to give him another thrashing with a birch. “A kiss?”

Javert reached out and drew his finger across Valjean’s warm bottom lip before he clenched his hand around his chin. “Anything I want. Anything I demand. Respect, obedience, submission. You’re going to learn that lesson. We both know you will. It’s you who’s making this so hard for yourself.”

“Respect is earned.”

There was a challenge in Valjean’s eyes. Was Valjean even aware of it? Those same eyes had once followed Javert across a yard, smoldering with rage as Javert gave the command to fire.

Javert felt his lips twitch. “I told you. If you’re so keen on another beating, you can simply ask for it.”

Valjean was silent at last, although his eyes were still filled with that sullen accusation.

Javert allowed the silence to last to drive the lesson home. Finally, when Valjean’s shoulders relaxed and he released a weary sigh of resignation, Javert curved his hand around his nape once more and leaned forward.

Despite Valjean’s moodiness, his mouth opened willingly enough for Javert. His tongue was shy at first, but after a minute had passed, he seemed to have forgotten his sulking, his heart beaten fast against Javert’s chest, his lips moving against his.

Javert’s hand drew down his back soothingly as Valjean gasped against his lips. Beneath his hands, the powerful body trembled.

Whatever Valjean might claim, he liked this well enough.

***

When the sun broke through the clouds after the rain had ceased, the storm having moved off, Javert reluctantly pulled on his damp clothes once more. Noiraude was still limping, the leg swollen and warm to the touch, and so the walk back to the town was slow.

Once the mare had been returned to her box, the stable boy instructed to prepare a poultice of comfrey for the lame leg and to see to it that she was well fed, Javert motioned Valjean to follow as he returned to his apartment.

“I would’ve let you have some of my coffee,” Javert said when he at last reclined in his chair by the fire, changed into dry clothes. “You were pleasant enough company. You kept me warm. But you just cannot control that vile temper of yours, can you?”

Valjean’s gaze fell to the ground, but even so Javert could see his brows draw together. No doubt Valjean would love nothing better than to snarl accusations at him even now when the truth was that Valjean had brought all of this on himself.

But then, Javert had always known that it was going to come to this, as agreeable as Valjean could be. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way. A skittish colt needed a gentle, firm hand—but a stallion that bit the hand that fed it needed to be taught manners with the whip, it seemed.

“How is it that you’re astute enough to run a factory and yet you cannot even control yourself? Remember. It’s up to you to make this easier for yourself.”

Valjean shifted again. He looked bedraggled, his wet clothes clinging to his body. With this rain, there was no more opportunity for haymaking, at least until the meadows had dried.

“Bring me my coffee,” Javert said. “Then go and change into dry clothes. Don’t dawdle on the way back, I will know.”

“Yes, sir,” Valjean said, and went to work obediently enough.

Minutes later, Javert was sipping his coffee, allowing the warmth to spread through him. It banished the chill that had remained even after he’d stripped out of the damp clothes.

No, there was no more work for Valjean today—and no emergency at the station-house that could not be handled by one of Javert’s agents. After all the bustle of harvest time, it would not hurt to spend an hour disciplining one of the town’s servants instead. Furthermore, as agreeable as the thought of it was, it was not merely self-serving entertainment—the disciplining of the men under his supervision was one of his duties as the chief of police, and it seemed that he had been remiss in it.

Once his cup was empty, Javert rose. He pulled a small linen bag from a drawer, which held the dried red peppers he had purchased on his last journey to Paris.

He placed one of the peppers in a small bowl, then began crushing it with a knife. A sharp, pungent scent rose and brought with it a sudden vision of Toulon’s blazing sun and the creaking of ships in the harbor. After he’d poured a small amount of oil into the bowl, Javert continued to work the pepper into a red paste.

The convicts in the hulks lived on their rations of bread and beans. It was true that they had the chance to purchase better fare—but not Jean Valjean, as far as he was aware. Valjean was one of those men without family or friends, and the pathetic theft he’d been sentenced for had not left him with a secret stash of gold either, as some of his more famous companions. Valjean might never have tasted what the harbor and merchant ships of the Mediterranean had to offer.

For no reason, a dim memory arose in his mind, his mother kneeling by a dirty stove, a spoon in her hand.

He scoffed at himself. Was that memory even real? Most of what he remembered of his childhood was the hunger, the squalor, the baseness of the men and the immorality of the women she’d sheltered with. She’d certainly never seemed particularly concerned with how he was to feed himself if both of his parents were locked behind bars. No; ultimately, there was a selfish element to every crime. A criminal cared not about what his acts meant for society; a criminal simply took. A thief took gold, a murderer a life, a forger a name.

Jean Valjean was not so different, for all that he claimed to be above the hulks. But he didn’t understand that Javert knew men like him intimately well. Javert hadn’t simply supervised them. He’d grown up among them.

Javert knew firsthand how hard it was to not simply take when one was hungry—but _he_ hadn’t resorted to theft. He’d known what side of the law he wanted to be on. And Valjean had made his own choice—the easier choice. The selfish choice of his parents, of every thief in the hulks—even of Gueit, the guard who’d been Javert’s first superior, until he’d been arrested when he’d drunkenly attacked an officer of the garrison by accident.

There was the sound of steps on the stair in the corridor, and Javert exhaled, pushing away thoughts of the harbor and the thieves and the mother he hadn’t thought about in many years.

He took the bowl with him back to his chair by the stove, placing it on the table next to him. He settled back into his chair just when Valjean entered once more.

“Come here.” Javert pointed to the floor in front of his chair.

Valjean gave him another of those careful looks, approaching with all the skittishness of a wild horse—but there’d been little of that skittishness in him when he’d half snarled at Javert in the hayloft.

At last, Valjean sank to his knees.

“Closer,” Javert said, watching as Valjean reluctantly came forward.

Once more Valjean’s gaze dropped just as warily to his groin, then rose with ill-concealed relief to Javert’s face.

Javert smiled with amusement. Valjean might yet change his mind about whether he truly preferred what was to come…

Slowly, he reached out, tracing Valjean’s mouth. Valjean allowed the touch with no protest, allowing Javert to slide his finger inside, to trace across the velvety heat of his tongue. For all of Valjean’s earlier rebellion, he was as tractable as his gelding now.

For a moment, Javert allowed himself to consider the pleasant vision of Jean Valjean broken of his ill manners, the powerful body pliant in his arms to warm him during winter nights, kneeling at his feet as he sipped his coffee in the mornings, Valjean’s immense strength put to good use during the day.

Valjean’s eyes followed him, still guarded but peaceful enough for now. It was true that he was a different vision than he’d been in the hulks with his dirty beard and his skin burned red by the sun. There’d been nothing but animal rage in his eyes then, an insolence that stirred something in Javert even when the cudgel and the whip had taught Valjean to keep his mouth shut.

The work under the gentler sun of Pas-de-Calais had tanned the skin that had paled under the many layers of clothes Madeleine had hidden his scars beneath. Jean Valjean was no longer the furious beast of the hulks, nor was he the deceptively mild-mannered magistrate who’d hidden in his factory.

In his simple, frayed workingman’s clothes, his throat bare to allow Javert a tantalizing glimpse of his broad chest, he exuded an overpowering masculinity that even now made Javert’s throat go dry as he thought of that straining vigor bent to his will.

“You can be so good if you want to,” he murmured, drawing the pad of his thumb along Valjean’s bottom lip while he kept his finger in the seductive heat of his mouth. “Look at you. I want to give you a treat just for looking at me like that.”

Immediately, Valjean’s cheeks flushed with heat, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t known what he looked like. Even now, he didn’t pull away. It was Javert who pulled his hand back at last, reaching into his pocket where he’d kept the small tin with the anise dragées. He placed one of them on his own tongue while Valjean watched, thinking back to the boy he’d been as the sweetness of the sugar spread across his tongue.

There’d been no treats such as this for a boy like Javert. Now, at last, he was in a position where he could indulge himself if he wished. But as sweet as the dragées were, the thought of Valjean’s soft lips trustfully taking one of the dragées from his palm was even sweeter.

As a child, he’d thought that one day in the future, he’d have what the people around him had: a home, plentiful food, good clothes. Respect.

Now, as an adult, when he’d achieved that goal, he’d come to realize that there were some indulgences authority brought with it that were even sweeter than all the sugar of Burgundy.

Unfortunately, Valjean’s own mulishness kept them both from tasting it.

“But you don’t deserve a treat, do you?”

Valjean’s brows knit. He gave Javert a look of such sullenness that Javert found himself laughing again.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to teach a mule,” he said lazily, then reached out and dipped his finger into the paste of red peppers and oil. “Open your mouth.”

Valjean exhaled but his lips obediently parted. His eyes were still on Javert, full of a quiet worry. He’d looked like that when he’d sucked on his sugary treat too, Javert remembered. What a conundrum this man was.

Without a word of warning, Javert slid his pepper-stained finger into Valjean’s mouth, resting it on his tongue. Then he waited.

A moment later, Valjean violently reared back, making a choking sound as his hands flew to his mouth.

“I’ve warned you repeatedly not to raise your voice at me. You _will_ learn this lesson,” Javert said softly, leaning forward to grab the front of Valjean’s shirt.

Valjean’s eyes were full of surprised tears. He was panting for breath, staring at Javert with wide, wet eyes.

“Please.” Valjean groaned pitifully. “Water...”

Javert shook his head. “You brought this on yourself. Now open your mouth. You’ll keep my finger in your mouth until I tell you otherwise. Is that understood?”

Valjean shook his head in terror, but after a moment his lips reluctantly parted when Javert tightened his hold on him. The desperate, wet gleam in his eyes was something Javert hadn’t seen in a long time. Not like this.

Gone was all of Valjean’s obstinacy, the impertinent challenge of those eyes, the suffering mouth that seemed fit for a martyr’s portrait.

Now, at last, all pretense had been stripped away. Valjean’s eyes were wide and shocked, tears pooling in the corners, and as Javert watched, they began running down his cheeks.

Gone was all the wariness, the feeling that Valjean was holding something back even when he’d beaten him with a switch. Valjean’s face was utterly unguarded—and his eyes were focused, at long last, on Javert, as if everything else had ceased to exist. As if Javert’s mastery was the only thing in the world that mattered.

It was how it should be. What a pity that Valjean should have chosen to learn this lesson the hard way.

“Keep it in your mouth,” Javert said softly, meeting Valjean’s agonized eyes. “Remember.”

He held out his finger again, which was still reddened with the mixture of the crushed pepper and oil.

Valjean’s eyes closed briefly, more tears welling up, clinging to his lashes where they gleamed before they dripped down his cheek. It truly was a sight that could have inspired an artist for a frieze of marble saints.

Then Valjean’s eyes opened again and he leaned forward, eyes cast up at Javert as he leaned forward to reluctantly take his finger into his mouth.

Tears were running down Valjean’s face. His tongue trembled against Javert’s finger. A choked sob escaped him after a moment that turned into a groan. His eyes half-closed again, his tears flowing freely.

Javert reached out, gently wiping away the tears with his thumb although new tears immediately followed. He smiled as he pressed his stained finger into Valjean’s tongue

“Good,” Javert said softly. “Remember this. I expect you to be well-behaved.”

Valjean couldn’t answer. Javert imagined the sharp burn of the pepper. Valjean’s tongue had to feel like it was on fire, the unbearable heat of the pepper driving tears to his eyes until he could no longer see.

Yes, it seemed that the impetuous purchase in Paris had been the right choice. Even Valjean, as immeasurably strong as he was, had no defenses against this torment. And he suffered exquisitely, his tears dropping from his cheeks to the floor as he trembled.

This was a lesson Valjean’s rebellious tongue would not soon forget.


	23. Chapter 23

Valjean’s mouth burned. He had never felt anything like it before—the sensation was as overwhelming as the long moment in which he’d clutched the red-hot coin as it seared his skin.

In his terror, his first thought had been that this was what Javert was doing—branding his tongue to keep him from talking. It was this terror which had made him flinch back, together with the shock of the unexpected pain. But whatever the red substance on Javert’s skin was, it had not harmed Javert’s finger. He had not even worn his gloves.

Surely Javert wouldn’t harm Valjean. Not permanently. It was that hope he clung to as his heart hammered in his chest, flames filling his mouth. The pain made it difficult to think as the unbearable heat sizzled on his tongue, his eyes watering uncontrollably.

But had not Javert praised his mouth before? Surely he would not mutilate him. Through the film of tears he looked up, trying to make out Javert’s expression.

“You don’t like that, do you?” Javert wiped some of tears away again, his touch strangely gentle. “Maybe this will work where the whip doesn’t. Do you think you’ll manage to control that tongue in the future?”

Humbly, Valjean nodded, Javert’s finger still in his mouth. His face felt as if it was on fire, wetness dripping down his cheeks.

“Remember those treats I brought back from Paris? I bought this, too. A special treat.” Javert chuckled. “Peppers—fresh off a ship from Cayenne, the merchant assured me. You aren’t enjoying this as much as the anise from Flavigny, are you?”

Mutely, Valjean shook his head. The roof of his mouth was on fire as well—even his throat was burning. Saliva kept pooling in his mouth and he had no choice but to swallow.

“That’s what I thought. Shall we see how long you’ll remember this lesson this time?”

Valjean nodded, all shame forgotten as he gave Javert a pleading look through his tears. With a small smile, Javert finally pulled his finger free.

“It really is such a sweet mouth.” Javert’s fingertip trailed over his swollen bottom lip. “I bet there are some things you’d rather have in that mouth now.”

Even in his current misery, Valjean felt new heat rise to his face. He turned his head away and Javert laughed.

“I’m not really giving you a choice. You know that, don’t you?” Javert murmured. “We both know it’ll happen. But I’ll let you do it in your own time.”

His hand stroked over Valjean’s skull, fingertips lingering on the short hair at his nape. Valjean shivered instinctively at the sensation.

His mouth was still burning—but the sensation hadn’t grown worse. Tentatively he raised a hand to his mouth, wiping his tongue against the back of it.

It didn’t help, and when he looked up plaintively, Javert was chuckling again.

“Are you sorry now? In that case, I think I deserve an apology for shouting at me.”

Valjean squeezed his eyes shut, but this did not in any way alleviate his stinging mouth.

“I’m sorry for shouting at you, sir,” he said hoarsely, wondering miserably whether it was worth it to beg Javert for a drink of water again.

“That’s better. Now go and fetch me some of the bread and cheese from this morning.”

Lazily, Javert leaned back in his chair. Valjean stumbled to his feet, then did as he was told. His eyes wouldn’t stop watering. His entire body felt too hot, sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades. Even so, although he gave the pitcher of water a longing look, he hastily assembled the morning’s leftover bread together with the cheese and a tub of yellow butter.

Once Valjean had placed his meal before him, Javert motioned to the ground again, and Valjean sank back to his knees by his feet.

Javert cut of a chunk of cheese and slid it into his mouth. Valjean allowed his gaze to return to the floor. His mouth still burned, but it wasn’t getting any worse. It was better than it had been several minutes ago, in fact. Even though it still felt like flames were licking at the roof of his mouth, the realization gave him hope. It was slowly getting better—surely the pain would stop eventually.

It took him a moment to realize that Javert’s hand had come down. There was a morsel of bread in his hand—the good white bread of the baker by the Saint-Walloy square, covered generously with the yellow butter.

Valjean stared at the morsel hesitantly. Instinct made him want to back away from it, after his recent experience at Javert’s hand.

“Don’t be a fool, Valjean,” Javert said impatiently. “Wasn’t one lesson enough for you?”

Valjean swallowed against the stinging in his mouth, then leaned carefully forward, taking the offered bread with as much hesitancy as if he were facing a poisonous snake. He could taste neither the bread nor the rich sweetness of the butter as he chewed, but once he’d swallowed, the burning seemed to have lessened to his great relief.

He must have looked surprised, for a moment later, Javert chuckled.

“Water wouldn’t have helped.” Javert cut himself another chunk of the sharp, pale cheese he favored. “More?”

“Yes, sir,” Valjean said, swallowing his pride. “Please.”

Javert smoothed another generous amount of the good butter onto a piece of bread, then held it out to Valjean. When Valjean carefully took it with his lips, Javert slid his finger into his mouth as well and Valjean licked the butter from his skin.

“You’re always so well behaved afterward,” Javert murmured. “Isn’t it easier like this?”

Heat rose to Valjean’s cheeks again. At last Javert pulled his finger free and Valjean lowered his head, chewing mechanically. The burning had lessened enough that tears were no longer running from his eyes, and when he tentatively touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he could feel no soreness, no blisters. Just a few minutes ago he could have sworn that someone had doused his tongue in oil and set it aflame—but apart from the remembered pain, it seemed to have done no lasting harm.

Valjean remained quiet while Javert finished his lunch. Finally Javert pushed his chair back. Valjean could feel the weight of Javert’s gaze on him. When he looked up, there was a thoughtful look on Javert’s face.

“Come here,” Javert said again. “Kiss me.”

That lesson wasn’t new. Even so, it meant swallowing his pride just as much as the bread had as he moved forward to kneel between Javert’s legs, rest his hands on his thighs, and lean upwards to hesitantly press his lips to Javert’s.

For a moment, the absurdity of his situation hit him. Mere weeks ago, he had been mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, owner of a factory, elector. And now here he was, kneeling on the ground of Javert’s apartment, the sole task occupying his full attention being how to please Javert with a kiss.

Javert ran his hand down his arm with an appreciative sound when Valjean slid his tongue into his mouth, and moments later, Valjean’s apprehension was forgotten. It was impossible to think of anything but the wet heat of Javert’s mouth, the strangely electric feeling of Javert’s tongue against his own. Even now, after all that Javert had already had of him, the intimacy of it was overwhelming. He’d never been so close to another person before, and as painful as the earlier lesson had been, he could not help but gradually relax into the sensation.

When Javert at last drew back, Valjean’s heart was racing again. His mouth was still tingling with a hint of the pepper’s bite—but a different heat had stirred in his body as well.

Thoughtfully, Javert licked his lips as he looked at him. “When I bought those peppers,” he said suddenly, “the merchant thought I was looking for the flavors of Saint-Domingue. He was wrong. I prefer the taste of this.”

Before Valjean could say anything, Javert leaned forward again. This time it was Javert’s tongue that slid hungrily into his mouth, and Valjean shocked himself by the moan that escaped him as Javert lingeringly licked into his mouth as if he savored the slight burn.

There was a slight smile on Javert’s lips when he pulled back. “Don’t think there’s a name for it,” he said quietly. “But I do have a taste for seeing you obey...”

***

It was not yet late; sunlight was still falling in through Javert’s windows. The storm had moved off, and the puddles on the cobblestones outside had almost dried. Instead of sending Valjean out into the fields, Javert had sent him back into the stable where he had checked on Javert’s mare and then spent the rest of the afternoon making certain that the hayloft was well-stocked with hay and straw before settling down to clean and polish the tack.

He was not certain if Javert had meant it as a punishment—to him, it felt like a reward. In the stables, he encountered no one but the lad who took care of the horses and the occasional police agent, who left him alone for the most part—probably well aware that Javert kept a firm grip on him.

The stable was quiet and peaceful, filled by dust and the warm scent of the horses. To sit on a bale of straw and patiently polish leather until it gleamed seemed more a reward than anything else. Perhaps that was why Javert had done it—to give him time to think about his punishment and about what else Javert had said.

Javert had been so certain that he would break. And perhaps Javert was right—it might be inevitable. Was there truly a reason to put it off? To sleep in Javert’s bed, to let him have his mouth as well when Javert had after all already taken everything else... perhaps it was nothing but stubbornness that kept Valjean from it.

Valjean knew that he was no better than the men he’d been chained to for nineteen years. Many of them had not thought twice about helping out a companion in such ways. It was true that Valjean had not had a companion of that sort in the hulks—and it was also true that even in Toulon, not all such services had been entirely voluntary.

Why then did he hesitate so when he’d let Javert have everything else?

Compared to the hulks, Javert was not so cruel. His torment was of a different kind, harder to bear in many ways—but who of the men chained beside Valjean would not have gladly taken his place here?

If he gave in, if he let Javert have what he wanted, perhaps there might be peace. Perhaps he might sleep in Javert’s bed, and the heat of Javert’s hunger would keep the voices of the past away.

Valjean’s mood was subdued when Javert at last summoned him back to his apartment. There, he served Javert his dinner and the wine to go with it, and when Javert gestured at the floor, he knelt before he’d even had time to think, the response coming instinctive now.

“The day ends better than it started,” Javert said with a small smile, his fingers trailing over the short hair that covered Valjean’s head.

Even that touch was easier to bear now, although the thought that Javert might choose to shave his head again still made Valjean’s heart clench in dread.

Without protest or hesitation, he took the food Javert offered—more bread and cheese, and morsels of a white fish. Javert was generous with the food. Valjean found himself closing his eyes as he closed his lips around Javert’s fingers. It did not seem so strange now as it once had to slide his tongue over them.

Javert’s nails were short and smooth against his tongue, without the ragged edges of Valjean’s own, and Javert’s skin was warm, faintly salty from the fish when Valjean carefully licked the fat from his fingertips.

Why had he rebelled against this for so long? It was not entirely unpleasant: there was something comforting in the heat and the salt of Javert’s skin. When he closed his eyes, he could linger on that sensation. It was an experience almost approaching peace—all else fell away but taste and touch.

He pressed his tongue against Javert’s fingertip, sucking a trace of butter from it when it returned with more. It was so easy to surrender to this peace, to allow his body to relax and let down his guard at last—but even now, when his mind was almost calm, the weight upon his shoulders nearly forgotten, a part of him ached with sadness. Javert touched him like no other ever had—but to Javert, he was still little more than a wild beast to tame.

What did Javert see when he looked down at him like this?

He did not see Valjean, not truly. He looked down at a criminal almost broken to his desires. What ached the most was how easy it would be to give in despite everything and let Javert have what he wanted.

It was into these thoughts that a loud knock on Javert’s door intruded.

When Javert motioned to him, Valjean obediently rose. It was not the day for the washerwoman to return Javert’s linens, so Valjean expected one of Javert’s agents with a message for him. Instead, when he opened the door, he found himself suddenly face to face with Fantine, who looked just as surprised as he felt before she proudly raised her chin.

“You.” She exhaled, still eying him suspiciously. “I’m here for the inspector, not for you.”

“Let her in,” Javert said from where he was seated.

The earlier peace making way for a strange feeling of disquiet, Valjean let Fantine enter before he returned to Javert’s table.

Had Fantine caused trouble again? Had Javert been satisfied enough with the lesson he’d taught Valjean today that he’d summoned Fantine to spend the night in his apartment instead?

Javert gestured at the floor by his feet, and Valjean instinctively sank to his knees once more.

“What is it?” Javert asked sharply.

Only then did Valjean realize that Fantine was still standing behind him. He hunched his shoulders uncomfortably, heat rising to his face once more. What was she thinking now?

Probably nothing she and the other servants had not already thought before. Still, it was one thing to have them whisper among themselves. It was another thing entirely to show off how well-trained Javert had him.

“They said there was a letter, sir,” Fantine said after a moment, her tone now markedly different to how she spoke to him. “From Montfermeil.”

“Ah. There was,” Javert said.

Valjean expected that he would make Fantine wait for it—had it been he who had awaited a letter, Javert would have certainly turned it into another game. Instead, from his position on the floor, he saw Javert reach into a pocket.

“Can you read?” he asked. Fantine must have shaken her head, for a moment later, he unfolded it.

“What an abominable fellow.” Javert stared at the letter with furrowed brow. “He’s singing a different tune now than he sang last week, at least.” Then he began to read out loud.

“ _Apologies once more for asking Monsieur for that trifling sum in the last letter; Monsieur was quite right to be doubtful, for it turns out that the doctor who looked at her was a quack who has since fled from the town. The girl is doing well and of good health, although I will allow myself to remind Monsieur that it is autumn, and children grow fast, and we would not like to see the child suffer from the cold. The girl should have a woolen coat, a skirt and warm stockings, and as much as my dear wife and I would like to spoil this girl who is as dear to us as our own, I must remind Monsieur that we already have four children who are in need of the same, which leaves us with little coin to spare. Your obedient servant,_ and so on and so forth.”

“Healthy!” Fantine said, and when Valjean looked up, he could see her clutching her hands to her chest. “Oh, thank God! They told me that a child can die from miliary fever—”

“And I told you the child has no such thing.” Javert laughed softly. “Miliary fever! And to demand fifteen francs—to call it a trifling sum? That fellow you left the girl with is either a rogue or a fool; never mind, he has changed his tune quickly enough.”

“Although it is true; winter will be here soon.” Valjean could hear Fantine take a deep breath. “My blanket’s made of a good wool; it’s large enough for a coat for a child—”

“It’s not your blanket,” Javert said curtly. “It’s the town’s blanket, as is everything else in the barracks. Paid for by Monsieur 24601 here. I daresay you will be more appreciative of his generosity when the winter comes—and so will he.”

There was a scornful sound from Fantine. “He doesn’t have much use for his own blanket, does he.”

Heat rose to Valjean’s face once more. He kept his eyes firmly trained on the floor between his knees.

“Go to Monsieur Robert,” he said quietly. “Tell him there’s a child in need. He would not talk to me now, of course, but he’s a good man. If you talk to him, he will give you clothes to send to Montfermeil.”

Javert laughed, but when Valjean slowly raised his head, merely waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not going to keep you from talking to him,” he said to Fantine, still sounding amused. “But—”

“If you call on him now, he will open the door to you,” Valjean interrupted firmly. “Don’t let his servants brush you off; he will hear you.”

Fantine stared at him, doubt and suspicion flitting across her face, mixed with a fierce determination Valjean knew well. It was the sort of determination that was born from despair. He had not seen it when she’d first come to his factory and asked for work, but it had been there all the same: that same desperate need to care for her child.

It was hard to face her now, after what he’d done, but even so he forced himself to look at her while she stared at him in turn, her dislike for him warring with a desperate hope.

“I think you should know better than to interrupt like that,” Javert said mildly. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Valjean said obediently and lowered his head, his heart heavy at the thought that this time, there was a witness to his misery. “My apologies, sir.”

Javert was silent for a moment, then turned back to Fantine. “Is that all then?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Please send the child all my love, and tell the innkeeper that I will send winter clothes for Cosette this month.”

A moment later, Valjean could hear the sound of Fantine’s wooden shoes as she turned from them. He did not dare to look up until he heard the sound of the door.

“She doesn’t like you at all, does she?” Javert murmured, sounding amused. “Do you regret your offer yet?”

“She wouldn’t be here without me,” Valjean said. There was a thoughtful look on Javert’s face despite his amusement. Valjean met his eyes calmly. “We might disagree about many things, sir—but I know that I’ve done things I should be punished for. I know it very well.”


	24. Chapter 24

Autumn brought with it not only sudden gales of wind that swept dark clouds inland from the coast, leading to endless days of rain, but also at last the appointment of the new mayor, M. Regnier. For Javert, little changed—his duties were, after all, still the same. All that differed was that now he was no longer obliged to listen to a man preaching compassion when he reported on a vagrant that had been jailed or a theft that had been committed.

Javert had half expected that M. Robert would step up and offer himself for the honor after he had purchased Valjean’s factory, but after the man’s regrettable support of Madeleine, it seemed that Robert was now content to see that everything was in order with the factory.

“I am surprised that we have not seen you campaign for office,” Javert said with a small smile.

Robert offered him a smile in return that gave away nothing. “I barely have the time to see to my own affairs these days.”

“And yet you were an ardent supporter of Madeleine.”

“Ah well,” Robert said philosophically, “did he not play us all for a fool?”

After that, Robert skillfully kept the conversation on track, for he had called Javert in to investigate the concerns of his workers, some of whom had reported being menaced by a wild dog when they arrived early in the mornings.

“There is already a rumor making the rounds in town that there is a wolf on the loose.” Robert smiled. “What wolf would just approach a town like that? Still, better to make an end to the rumor before it grows even further.”

By the time one of Javert’s agents cornered the feral mutt and shot it, it had indeed grown into a pack of wolves roving through Montreuil in the tales of the townspeople. After Javert had made his report to the mayor, he returned to Valjean’s former factory to inform Robert that the issue had been dealt with.

A movement to the side caught his attention before he entered. Instead of striding inside, he slowly approached the narrow alley that ran alongside the building where crates of materials were stacked—and there he found to his great surprise Jean Valjean in conversation with Robert.

“Is he bothering you, monsieur?” Javert said sharply. “He should know better than to accost honest citizens.”

“Not at all,” Robert said. The smile he gave Javert was decidedly cold. “I have been making inquiries about the prices of a certain supplier—they seemed unusually high to me. Your men, when they searched Madeleine’s offices, made quite a mess of things, and the old bills cannot be found. Fortunately, there’s a man here who should be well aware of the price of gum shellac. I beg your pardon for interrogating him in your absence. I had not thought I would need a police agent’s permission for such a trivial thing.”

Javert straightened, fury bristling deep inside him—even more so when he noted Robert slipping something into his pocket. Had he exchanged notes with Valjean? Was Valjean, despite his deceptively obedient demeanor of recent weeks, once more secretly plotting to make his escape?

And yet, it made no sense that a respectable man like Robert would be caught up in such a scheme. At most, Robert might be bribing Valjean in order to buy the old secrets of his trade. In that case, surely such concerns were not Javert’s problem—his duty was to ensure the safety of the town, and the concerns of the businesses of electors were far beyond him.

Nevertheless, after all the time he had spent with Jean Valjean on his knees before him, it stung to find himself so callously reminded of his own inferiority in front of just that man.

“Of course not, monsieur,” Javert said curtly. “Nevertheless, you are speaking to a dangerous man. It would be a dereliction of my duty if I allowed you to come to harm while I am supervising his behavior.”

“Oh, I am feeling quite safe with you watching over me. Paris must have been delighted by your conduct. It astonishes me that they have not yet offered you a more prestigious post than our small town.”

Again Javert felt unsettled. Was Robert hoping to get rid of him? It was true that Javert had his eyes on Paris—he had never desired to end his life in a provincial town. Yet what did Robert know of that?

The only explanation Javert could see was that without him around to keep Valjean in check, Robert would have an easier time of approaching him.

And yet—why would Robert desire such a thing?

“I am satisfied with the challenges Montreuil has to offer,” Javert said at last, biting back the urge to demand an explanation.

“And Montreuil is lucky to have you.”

Usually it was easy to read Robert. The man’s open face hid nothing. This time, although on the surface it was an interaction like any other, Javert could not help but feel that something was amiss. He would have to keep an eye on Valjean around Robert.

By the time he had Valjean safely back in the station-house, two of his agents had returned as well, trading tales of the rumors that had sprung up in such a short time. Javert ignored them, something tight and angry still twisting in his stomach. He eyed the door that led to the small jail, but then decided against it. Instead, he took Valjean upstairs with him into his apartment.

“What were you talking about to Robert?”

“Nothing, sir,” Valjean answered after a short moment. “He was asking about past suppliers and prices. He could not find some of the old bills, and one of the suppliers must have thought it a good opportunity to double their prices.”

“And that was all?” Javert demanded.

Valjean remained silent for a moment, his brows coming together as he looked at Javert with an apprehension that had by now become familiar. Javert thought of the note he’d seen Robert pocket. Whatever was going on, he’d have the truth out of Valjean.

“No, sir,” Valjean said reluctantly.

“Well?”

“I’m not forbidden from answering a citizen’s questions, am I, sir?”

Javert exhaled in displeasure. “Are you trying to play a game, Valjean?”

Again Valjean remained silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No, sir,” he murmured. “It was about Fantine’s child. I know she would not accept my help, and I was afraid she’d be too proud to go to M. Robert. I wrote down the name of those inn-keepers in Montfermeil for him and asked him to send warm winter clothes for a young girl there.”

Valjean’s head was bowed, his eyes on the floor. When Javert gripped hold of his chin and tilted his head up, his eyes widened. He still looked apprehensive—but there was no defiance in his eyes, only a worry that made his brows knit together and deepened the lines around his mouth.

Javert frowned, strangely unsatisfied—even more so because despite Valjean’s obvious uncertainty, he couldn’t detect a lie in what he’d said.

“Very well then. Strip.”

That caused a reaction at last. Valjean’s eyes widened a little, his breath coming faster—but when Javert released his chin, he obeyed readily enough.

Javert watched. Once Valjean was naked, he picked up his clothes and began to search them.

“Lean against the wall.”

There was a faint flush on Valjean’s cheeks, but he followed that command as well.

Valjean’s pockets were empty. Javert carefully felt along the seams, but despite his thorough search, he couldn’t find any other hidden notes. When he turned his attention back on Valjean, he saw that Valjean had remained in position. The sight of the powerful body bared to him caused another twinge of excitement. It was true: Valjean was not quite the brute he had been in Toulon. Perhaps that was what made his sullen spells and moments of disobedience so puzzling. Valjean was too shrewd for that.

But perhaps not shrewd enough to keep his interactions with Robert hidden from Javert.

Javert ran his hands over Valjean’s body, searching him as he had been searched so often before. Valjean held still for all of it, even though Javert could feel the tensing of his muscles and the quick thudding of his heart.

“Haven’t had to do this in a while,” he murmured against Valjean’s shoulder. “Do you think I’ve been too trustful?”

He breached Valjean with one finger. Valjean was tight around him, but didn’t resist, and Javert made a thoughtful sound, not surprised to find the anal cavity empty—no concealed letter or file.

“No, sir,” Valjean said. He exhaled heavily when Javert rubbed the pad of his thumb against the rim of his hole where it was still spread around his finger. “I haven’t—I was thinking of the girl, not myself. I made this bargain willingly. I wouldn’t risk it.”

“So you think I should trust you?”

Valjean tensed beneath his hands, as if he was wondering whether the question was a trap.

“Yes, sir.”

Javert smiled against his shoulder. “Trust is earned.” Nevertheless, he pulled his finger out of Valjean’s body, watching the scarred back shift, muscles bunching beneath the skin.

He curved his hand around a buttock, squeezing in appreciation. No wonder the vision of Valjean had haunted him back in the hulks. The man was built like a Flemish stallion, all bulging muscle and barely contained strength.

“Tell me, Valjean,” he murmured, moving even closer, “if I were to hold out a bit, would you willingly take it in your mouth?”

Valjean tensed again. Javert kept stroking his powerful haunches in admiration. Finally Valjean half turned to look at him.

“Is that what you would have me do to earn your trust?”

Javert laughed. His hand was still on Valjean’s hip, lightly stroking his warm skin.

“No. That’s not what it takes. No deal; no dare. You will have my trust when I can hold out a bit of cold iron and you open your mouth for that as willingly as for my fingers—without question, without wanting to prove something. That’s what I want. That’s when you’ll have my trust.”

Valjean’s brows drew together again. “And you think I’ll do that one day?”

“You know you will.”

Valjean didn’t protest at that declaration, but all the same, his mouth twisted with worry.

Yes, Valjean knew that Javert was right. Javert would have what he wanted. And Valjean might not want to yield now, but he knew it was inevitable.

“You do not like to make things easier for yourself, do you?” Javert asked.

In answer, Valjean exhaled again, shifting slightly beneath his touch. Truly not that different from trying to gentle an uneasy horse. 

He’d have everything he wanted from him. He’d see him break. And not under the whip—Valjean would give himself up entirely, willingly, just as he had promised.

***

It was late in the afternoon on the same day when Javert heard the door of the station-house open and close. He didn’t bother to raise his head; this was the time his agents would eventually return from their duties and make their report. With the dog shot, there hadn’t been much else of note, except for an argument in a tavern.

“Sir. I found this man down by the gate. He says he was on his way to the station-house.”

When Javert looked up, he saw Delrue—lean and looking twice as tall as usual next to the hunched figure by his side. The man he’d brought in wore a threadbare coat that might once have been brown but was now bleached by the sun to the color of dirty sand. His hair might have been the same color—or it might have been the dirt caking it. It was hard to tell.

“Thought it might be another of your friends.” Delrue chuckled. “From the hulks.”

He’d hardly needed that addition. Javert had immediately known who he had in front of him, even without seeing the man move. He had that look of a man who dragged his leg. Some chains couldn’t be left behind—for all that Valjean had tried.

“Your passport,” Javert said coldly, ignoring Delrue. The man was capable, but it was starting to become apparent that he thought himself on equal footing with Javert. Javert could not let such disrespect stand.

The ex-convict came shuffling forward. He wore wooden shoes, and in his walk, Javert could indeed detect the effects that years of a heavy chain dragged from one leg had left.

Javert unfolded the yellow sheet of paper, glancing at the date of his release from the hulks of Brest before perusing the stamps and official notes marking the man’s route of travel to Saint-Omer with more interest.

“You’re behind,” he said. “You should have passed through here two days ago, given when you left Abbeville.”

“It was very hot, sir,” the man stammered, awkwardly clutching his cap in his hands. “Didn’t know where to find water, and you know they won’t have someone like me in an inn. So I walked on, although my feet hurt very much, and I slept in the forest, where it was cool, and I followed the sound of water in the morning because I was very thirsty, you see. Only I couldn’t find the road again after that, and the forest didn’t end, and—”

“Very well.” Javert cut off the man’s pathetic explanations, stamping the man’s travel route before handing the passport back together with the small handful of coins he was owed for his next leg of travel. “Make sure you’re out of the gates by first morning light.”

“Thank you, sir,” the man stammered. “Only where will I go, sir? The inn will not have me, surely, they never do…”

“That’s no problem of mine.” Javert looked back down at his report, but a moment later, he laughed when he remembered an earlier conversation.

“Why don’t you seek out the owner of that factory of jet beads?” There was a small smile on his face as he eyed the ragged man before him, seeing another man’s face. “I am told Monsieur Robert is a good man. Surely a compassionate man who goes to Mass every Sunday will have a bed for you.”

He made a dismissive gesture, idly watching as the man left. Would Monsieur Robert allow a convicted criminal to sleep in his house? A man with a yellow passport? Surely not.

For all that he still seemed unnaturally attached to Valjean, there was always an element of hypocrisy in compassionate men like that. And for a good reason, too—it was all very well to give alms and fund hospitals, but Javert knew firsthand the evil caused by such degenerate men. Released from Toulon, from Rochefort, from Brest, these beasts thought that they were free—and in tasting that freedom, their minds were inevitably drawn back to those acts of greed and violence that had landed them in the hulks in the first place. As wretched as this man pretended to be, wouldn’t he resort to theft, perhaps even to murder, as soon as he was hungry and alone on the road with an honest traveler?

“You have a soft spot for those convicts, chief.”

Delrue’s voice drew him from his thoughts. When Javert looked up in consternation at the familiar tone, he saw that they were alone once more, the ex-convict no longer in the station-house.

“Can’t spoil them all like that Jean Valjean. People will talk.”

Javert remained silent, eying the man in disbelief.

Apparently oblivious to the thin ice he was on, Delrue continued, “If it were me, now, I know whom I’d have serving my soup. That Fantine’s a beauty. And she has a reason to be grateful to you, sir.”

“Does she,” Javert said coldly.

Behind Delrue, the door slowly opened. A moment later, Fantine entered, hesitating when she saw that Javert was not alone.

Javert ignored her, too astonished by Delrue’s impertinence to deal with her presence.

“You know. Saving her child and all that.”

Javert scoffed. “She has Valjean to thank for that. What do I care about her child?”

Delrue smiled, as if he’d tricked Javert into giving away more than he’d intended.

“So was it Valjean you cared about then?”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Javert said, carefully keeping his voice even, “but I suggest you get back to your work. I’ll hear no more talk about this issue. Valjean is my problem; he doesn’t concern you.”

“Of course, sir.” Delrue was still smiling slightly, and Javert could see him start when he turned and saw Fantine there. His smile widened; she in turn paid him no heed, her eyes on Javert as she knotted her hands into her stained apron with much the same anxiety as the ex-convict earlier.

“Has there been another letter, sir?” she asked tentatively.

Javert raised his brows at Delrue, who was still staring at her. Unimpressed with the man’s conduct, he watched as Delrue finally left. Only when the man had at last closed the door behind him did he wave Fantine closer.

“There’s not much of note in it,” he said, sparing her the paragraph where the inn-keeper was trying yet again to demand money for some contrived reason. 

“Here; it says that the clothes for Cosette have arrived and that they fit well. This is what he writes: _The girl looks like a little princess in her new coat. Of course, given the trifling sum the state sees fit to pay kindhearted people who take a child like her into their home, she has to make herself useful around the inn now._ Well, that’s to be expected. How old is she now?”

“She will be six now, sir.” Fantine’s eyes were still on the letter in his hands. “Of course, that’s the way in an inn like that. I’m sure their own little girls are helping out by now; I can just see those three little angels making a game of helping with the washing up and the cleaning of the rooms. What a joy that must be for a traveler to arrive in Montfermeil and to be greeted by those small, smiling faces!”

“It’s a good thing to teach them the value of honest work when they’re young,” Javert said. “I was working for my living at that age—and there was no inn-keeper to give me a roof over my head, and no one paying for my upkeep. She has it well enough, your daughter.”

“Yes, sir,” Fantine said.

He’d expected that she’d leave at that. Instead, she raised her head after a moment, studying him with the same scrutiny she’d given the letter in his hands. “Is it true what you said about Jean Valjean?”

“What did I say about him?”

“That I have to thank him, not you.”

Javert scoffed. “What, you think your begging in court would have changed my mind? No. Jean Valjean decided to ask for a deal. I thought he’d have told you all about that.”

She ignored his words. “What kind of deal?”

“He said he’d sign himself over into indenture just like you. Willingly.” Javert smiled slightly at the memory. “In return, I’d see to the upkeep of the child. It wasn’t so bad a deal for the town—we’re getting the labor of three men out of him. And I find it quite effective to see a man serve the punishment for his crimes in the very community he wronged. It makes for an excellent lesson for all involved. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes. A lesson indeed,” Fantine said bitterly. Then she took a deep breath and smoothed her rumpled skirt. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and her eyes respectfully lowered. “When you write to the innkeepers, please send Cosette my love, and that I think of her every day.”

Javert eyed her with approval. “There, see? Even you have learned that lesson.”

Fantine’s lips tightened, but she didn’t protest. Just like Jean Valjean, this was a lesson she’d had to learn the hard way—but she’d learned it, just like Valjean would eventually.


	25. Chapter 25

It was late when Valjean returned to the barracks, although the sun had not yet sunk below the horizon. He stood at the window for a while, looking out at the small patch of weeds that had overgrown the narrow area between the servants’ barracks and the station-house’s stable.

Eventually he tiredly rolled his shoulders and began to wash and dress in clean clothes. Javert had not summoned him yet, although that was only a matter of time. Depending on Javert’s workload, Javert might be too distracted to retire to his apartment until another hour or two had passed. It was rare, but Valjean enjoyed those moments of privacy and solitude all the more. Even when Valjean had finished whatever tasks Javert would set him in his apartment, Valjean was always aware of Javert’s eyes resting on him.

When Valjean finally returned to the small kitchen area, he saw that Fantine had returned as well.

“Catch.”

It was the only warning he received before a heel of bread was thrown at him. Then an apple followed, and another apple, and another hard chunk of bread that he only managed to grab just in time before it could fall onto the floor.

Valjean stood bewildered, confused by the sight that met him. Fantine was glaring at him again, her mouth tight and narrow and her eyes filled with a helpless anger.

Had something happened? Had Javert…

Fantine grabbed hold of the basket that held the remaining bread. Before she could lift it to no doubt hurl it at Valjean’s chest as well, another hand came down to pull the basket out of her grasp.

“That’s our dinner,” Faillot said sharply. “Take your lover’s quarrel somewhere else. Some of us work hard for our food, you know. Not everyone gets to eat the Inspector’s food.”

Embarrassment made Valjean’s throat go tight as he remembered that Fantine had been there to observe how well Javert had him trained. Was this what had caused this? She’d been noticeably colder to him afterward, but had never confronted him about it. He’d been glad. What would he have been able to say?

She’d told him before that she didn’t need his protection—but she didn’t realize what it was like. That she hadn’t done anything wrong. If it was him in Javert’s bedchamber, at least there was a reason for why he was here, stripped of the life of honest men.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding out the bread she’d thrown at him. “You should just take it. He’s right, you know.”

It was true—it was wrong to take a share of their communal food when he knew that Javert would be generous enough with his own, as long as Valjean behaved. And wasn’t he already long past shame? These people knew him for what he was, just as Javert did.

“I don’t need your help,” she said furiously. “I don’t want it! Especially not when you lie about it! Is this all part of some plan of yours? What the hell are you trying to do?”

Valjean stared at her. He couldn’t quite make sense of her words. When had he ever lied to her?

He’d gone to Robert to ask for clothes to be sent to Montfermeil, that much was true. But surely she couldn’t know that it was him who’d gone to Robert?

“Will you two stop it! We’re trying to eat here,” Marie said, dropping her spoon into the pot with a loud clang. “Go and fight outside, if you have to.”

A moment later, Fantine strode past Valjean, eyes still blazing. She yanked open the door to the small dormitory where Valjean slept with the other two men.

“Come on then,” she said. “You’re going to talk to me now, and you’ll tell me the truth.”

Apologetically, Valjean set down the bread and apples on the table, then followed Fantine inside. The curtain was still drawn back and allowed the warm rays of the evening sun in through the dusty windowpane.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as soon as he’d closed the door behind him. “Is this about the clothes Monsieur Robert sent to Montfermeil? I wasn’t doubting you. I know you’d do anything for your child. But I know him well and—”

“Ah, you’re singing a different song now,” Fantine said with no small amount of bitterness. “Because you didn’t believe a word of my story when I was begging you not to fire me. Just imagine, if you’d believed this back then, we both wouldn’t be here. Maybe I’d even have managed to bring my Cosette to Montreuil by now. But that’s right—I couldn’t have, or you and your superintendent would have found out. And then I would have been out of a job, with Cosette here to share in my misery.”

Stung, Valjean lowered his head. She was right. He’d tried so hard to be good at the time, but the first chance he’d been given to reach out to someone, to return the compassion shown to him in Digne, he’d recoiled—just as the men and women had recoiled from his yellow passport that bore the stamp of the hulks of Toulon.

“I’m sorry.” The words ached in his throat as he thought of the young boy he’d stolen from.

But then, Fantine already knew about that. Everyone in this town knew that he was the sort of man who’d steal money from a child.

“This isn’t about Robert,” she said a moment later. “I want to know what you’re playing at. I heard about that deal you made in Arras. I never even wondered about it before—of course you’d rather remain here instead of serving your sentence in the hulks. And I thought that Javert had found some compassion at last to continue paying those innkeepers. Do you know that they only take five francs from him? What he gives them is no more than what the state pays every family who takes in a homeless child. It isn’t much. And they asked for fifteen francs every month from me! But never mind now. That’s not what happened, is it? It was you who made Javert change his mind.”

“He wanted me to stay in Montreuil,” Valjean said hesitantly. “To serve my sentence here as an indentured servant, just like you did. The judge wouldn’t agree. A man has to sign himself over willingly, you see. So I had something to offer Javert.”

“And you made a deal with him.” Fantine gave him a considering look. “Yes. I think we’ve all seen that he wanted you to make that deal very much.”

Embarrassed, Valjean looked to the ground. It didn’t matter, he told himself again. In a year, Fantine would leave and be reunited with her child. She’d never see him again.

“So why didn’t you tell me? All these days you’ve walked past me with that wounded look on your face. I refused to set a place for you at the table, and you never said anything. You just walked past us and went to bed hungry. Or maybe not so hungry after all. Still. Why did you let us treat you like that? You can do anger well enough; we’ve seen that. But you’d rather starve, is that it? Rather starve than tell me the truth, when it is _you_ who fired me for being dishonest.”

Stung, Valjean reared back. “What does it matter? Let it rest. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m trying to help you!”

“You’re not helping! I can take care of myself!”

“You don’t know what it’s like!”

His heart thundering in his chest, his ears still ringing with the echoes of voices that had once hurled insults at him, Valjean realized a moment too late that the words had burst out of him with enough force that Fantine should have run from the room in terror.

Instead, she was facing him with the same fury, her eyes blazing as she took a step forward. “Oh no. You don’t get to treat me like that anymore. I told you, I only lied to you because I was afraid of you. But I’m not scared by you anymore. You’re no better than me. You don’t get to judge me and make decisions for me.”

“I’m not better than you,” Valjean said after a long moment, his heart still racing. For once, he almost wished that Javert had been there to observe his outburst. He’d never intended to scare Fantine. “I’m a convict. A recidivist. I stole from a child. You heard all of that.”

“I did. And I also heard what you did for me. For my Cosette. So why did you never say a word, even when we treated you like a leper, ignoring you at dinner when we’ve seen you work just as hard as everyone else for your bread?”

Valjean gave her a helpless look. She had every right to be upset at the way he’d treated her—but what reason was there for her to worry about those evenings?

“You know what I am,” he said helplessly. “What I’ve done. You’ve treated me no worse than I deserve.”

“No. What I’ve done—what you’ve made me do by failing to be honest with me—was to treat you horribly. I’ve behaved like an ungrateful wretch. Oh, I’ve never asked for your help. I don’t want you to ever try and make my decisions for me again. But all the same, I won’t be tricked into mistreating you for no reason. That’s not a choice you get to make for me anymore.”

Valjean stared at her. Her fury over this still did not entirely make sense to him, but he nodded regardless.

“I’m sorry,” he said, abashed. “For everything I’ve done. You wouldn’t be here without me.”

“And you wouldn’t be here without me,” Fantine said. “Though I’m certain that this is better than the hulks. Still. Thank you, monsieur, for making sure that my child is looked after.”

Fantine smiled at him then—it was a small, tentative smile, not quite unlike those moments when she’d caught his eye in the factory.

He’d never truly had a friend before, but he realized that even back then, they’d had something in common. Both of them had been forced to keep their past a secret. Only Fantine had lied to protect a child. He’d lied only to protect himself.

But he was making up for that now. And maybe it would be enough to know that Fantine was reunited with her child at last, once her time here in Montreuil was over.

***

It was late when Valjean was at last called to Javert’s apartment. It was dark outside, and Javert had already lit the fire in his stove and drawn the curtains.

Javert’s coat was damp and his boots were muddy. He looked tired as he sat in his chair by the fire, his eyes closed as Valjean hurriedly cleaned everything away and then set the table for Javert’s dinner.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” Javert murmured, gesturing at the floor.

Valjean obediently sank to his knees. Javert reached out and rested a hand on his head. There was something almost soothing in the sensation of Javert’s fingers running through his hair. Valjean had become so used to it that he no longer flinched when Javert touched his head.

Javert made a thoughtful sound after a moment, his fingers curling against Valjean’s nape, then tracing back up. “It’s growing rather long, isn’t it,” Javert mused, then laughed at Valjean’s instinctive start.

“You realize I have no intention of hurting you.” Javert’s fingers traced along one of the old scars on his scalp. “I prefer different ways of dealing with you, when you give me reason to.”

Valjean could not help the shudder despite Javert’s words. The memory of dull razor blades nicking his skin were lodged too deep in his mind. Even so, he didn’t protest. He saw himself in the mirror when he shaved, after all. He knew it had been coming.

Javert kept stroking his head, his fingers idly tracing through Valjean’s hair while the fire crackled, the stove giving off a welcome heat on this autumn evening.

It truly was not so bad—it would have been much worse in Toulon. In the hulks, no barber would have cared whether a blade cut him. Javert, he believed, did care. Javert had never hurt him from mere neglectfulness. There was intention behind Javert’s every act.

Valjean swallowed, bending his head as Javert smoothed a lock of hair back behind his ear.

“Sir,” he said softly, shame welling up inside him once more at the memory. “I lost my temper today. I shouted at Fantine.”

It felt good to have it out in the open, although merely speaking it had made him feel even more wretched. How could he have shouted at Fantine when he’d been trying to make up for his ill treatment of her all this time? He’d fought it for so long, but Javert was right. He’d lashed out like an animal driven into a corner.

“Did you?” Javert’s hand came forward, his thumb stroking along Valjean’s cheek. Then, with an abrupt motion, he grabbed hold of Valjean’s chin. “Why are you telling me this?”

Valjean looked up at Javert, his heart racing in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut after a moment. “Because I’m sorry. Because I shouldn’t have. She didn’t deserve it.”

Because he deserved to be punished. And because Javert had promised that he’d drive the animal out of him.

With a thoughtful hum, Javert released his chin after a moment. “I see,” he said, sounding almost amused.

He gazed at Valjean for a long moment. Valjean quietly met his gaze, clenching his hand until his nails dug into his palm where the round, red brand had stopped hurting long ago.

“Despite your stubbornness, you do want to learn, don’t you…” Javert brushed his thumb almost gently across Valjean’s lips, then released him.

“Serve my dinner.”

Valjean moved quietly, still lost in a haze of misery as he filled Javert’s glass with wine and brought his food—fish this time, stewed with butter and white wine, and served with a generous amount of white bread. When he was done and knelt by Javert’s side, Javert’s fingertips stroked his nape for a moment before he began to eat.

Javert was not only generous with the food, but even allowed Valjean sips of his wine today until Valjean wondered in despair whether Javert had not understood. And of course, perhaps he had not—perhaps to Javert, it did not matter whether Valjean shouted at Fantine, who was after all but another indentured servant.

He clenched his hand again at the thought, but the brand had healed long ago. There was no pain, just the memory of that dusty, hot road and the silver coin in his hand while a watchful sun glared down at him in judgment. Still, when Javert’s fingers came up to his mouth with a morsel of bread soaked in the rich broth the fish had stewed in, he took it without protest, licking the butter from Javert’s fingers the way Javert liked it.

Only when Javert had finished his dinner did he finally act on Valjean’s earlier confession. While Valjean cleaned the table, Javert rose and opened a drawer. Valjean caught a glimpse of a bundle of dried red peppers. Heat rushed to his face at the sight and he hastily turned away while Javert laughed softly—but all the same, there was a bottomless relief spreading through Valjean, his tense shoulders relaxing at last.

Perhaps he was going mad to ask this of Javert of all people. Still, did it matter who applied the punishment? Valjean might not agree with Javert about most things—but to shout at Fantine had been a wretched thing to do. Just one more act in a long line of miserable choices that had led both her and him into this situation, it was true, but nevertheless it was something he should be made to pay for.

Fortunately Javert was always willing to make him pay for his sins.

When Valjean had finished clearing away the remnants of Javert’s dinner, Javert had retreated back to his chair by the fire, taking his glass of wine and a shallow bowl with him, which he placed on a small table by his side.

Javert motioned for Valjean to approach, who was beginning to feel apprehensive as he remembered the burning pain he’d experienced the last time. Nevertheless, he sank to his knees, eying the bowl warily.

Javert laughed. “It seems that this is more effective than I feared. Though perhaps, if you actually ask for it, it’s not enough of a punishment to be a deterrent?”

Valjean swallowed and shook his head. He remembered the agony all too well. It truly hadn’t been much different from holding the glowing coin in his hand.

“I wasn’t asking for it, sir.” The denial sounded weak to his own ears, because the truth was, of course, that he’d hoped for it.

“But you know what’s going to happen if you don’t learn some manners, don’t you?”

Valjean nodded heavily, unable to take his eyes from the bowl. “Yes, sir.”

“And there will be no begging this time?”

Valjean swallowed, then shook his head. “No sir. And no relief for me either, after.”

At that, Javert raised a brow, then laughed again, still sounding amused. Nevertheless, he seemed willing enough to play along.

Of course, when had Javert ever missed an opportunity to remind Valjean of his place?

“Have it your way then. You do like doing things the hard way, don’t you?” Javert sounded almost affectionate—but then, of course, Valjean already knew that to Javert, he merely held the same fascination as a favored horse might to another man.

Javert dipped his finger into the bowl. When he held it out to Valjean, it was once again coated with the oily, red paste Valjean remembered well. He could smell it, too—the sharp scent was enough to make his eyes start to water.

He deserved this. He deserved this for shouting at Fantine, the one person who least deserved his anger. If he wanted to be more than the animal that they’d made of him in the hulks, then he needed to control his instincts. He’d learn that lesson—even if he had to learn it at Javert’s hands.

Valjean leaned forward, parting his lips, just as he had opened for the morsels of white bread and juicy fish. He took Javert’s finger into his mouth, the taste and the warmth of him familiar by now, although this time, instead of the salt of Javert’s skin he could only take the smoky sweetness of the dried peppers.

Warmth spread across Valjean’s tongue, saliva gathering at the back of his mouth. The warmth rapidly turned to heat—and then, just like the first time, it began to burn.

Even knowing what to expect this time, the pain of it was overwhelming. It felt as if his tongue was on fire, flames licking at the roof of his mouth. Tears were running uncontrollably from his eyes, and there was an agonized shout stuck in the back of his throat—but he squeezed his eyes shut and curled his tongue around Javert’s finger, forcing himself to suck the burning pepper from his skin instead.

“It really is quite effective, isn’t it,” Javert murmured somewhere above him as Valjean wept helplessly.

The fire in his mouth was nearly unbearable, but he bore it, just as he’d born the pain of the burning coin before. This, at last, was a punishment he knew he deserved—and it was the only way he could see of becoming a man better than the one he’d been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of money foster parents were paid are taken from Rachel Ginnis Fuchs, Abandoned Children: Foundlings and Child Welfare in Nineteenth-Century France, table 7.2.


	26. Chapter 26

After several days of rain, sunshine had finally dried wet fields and streets. In the morning, autumnal mist had filled the alley outside Javert’s window, but as the sun continued to rise, it had quickly dispersed.

Javert had taken a recovered Noiraude for a ride along the Canche, making certain that the rain had not made the river swell so much that there had been damage done to bridges or paths. It turned out that close to where the road split to lead towards Écuires, the constant rain had indeed weakened the soil so much that an old chestnut growing on the riverbank had half sunk into the water. Its branches now leaned low across the road and made the passage difficult for carriages.

On his return to Montreuil, Javert had sent Delrue to gather the men from the barracks and take Caillot, Fasquel and Valjean out to deal with that obstacle. The thought of Valjean straining under the heavy load as he once had in Toulon was an image that had been on Javert’s mind ever since—but the removal of a dead tree was hardly a task fit for the Chief of Police.

Instead, Javert had remained in the station-house for most of the day, hearing a complaint against a stable lad whom a traveler had accused of theft, interrogating a woman of the town who wanted to leave her profession, and questioning another woman who wanted to abandon her infant to the sisters of charity.

By the time the sun was beginning to descend and the shadows lengthening, Javert was in half a mind to demand his horse be readied for him to see if he could not catch the last few minutes of Valjean straining beneath a heavy branch or pulling a rope, all brute strength finally used in obedience to Javert’s wishes. Instead, scowling as he remembered Delrue’s half-smirk as he collected his orders, Javert remained at his desk, staring down at his notes on the stable lad without truly seeing them.

He’d chosen to deal with Delrue’s blunder by increasing his workload. Delrue hadn’t voiced a single complaint; he had no family, as far as Javert was aware, except for an uncle who worked as a farm hand near Hesdin. Delrue was a hard worker, not given to distraction by drink or women, was strict with the men he apprehended and unmoved by pitiful tales or tears.

It was unfortunate that gaining Javert’s approval seemed to have given him the idea that they were on an equal level. Javert had worked hard for the social standing he had reached as Chief of Police of Montreuil—Delrue, hard worker that he might be, was no more than a police spy. And if Delrue hoped to one day have a position like Javert’s, then this false familiarity with Javert was not the way to go about it. Javert, who had after all been in Delrue’s position during the years since he’d left the hulks of Toulon, would never have thought of addressing his old chief with such condescending familiarity. The old man he’d served under would certainly have had a word or two to say about that.

Javert straightened, banishing all thoughts of Valjean and Delrue from his mind. There was still work to be done, after all.

It took him another hour to get his notes on the interrogations conducted today into order. The stable lad hadn’t said much that made sense, but a few remarks made by the traveler who had accused the boy had aroused Javert’s interest, and Javert wrote a note to the Prefecture with the details the man had given about his travels.

Then, just as he’d folded the letter, the door opened and three of his men came in. They seemed relaxed, laughing as they entered, although they fell silent as soon as they were inside. A good sign: it seemed there had been no further disturbances of the peace. Javert gave a curt nod at his desk and Gilbert came forward immediately to collect the letter to go out with the next post coach, taking the reports Javert had written to join those of the past.

“Where’s Delrue?” Javert demanded.

“Should be back any minute now. He decided the men were going to finish the work they started, no matter how long it took them.”

There was a muted laughter—a reaction unusual enough that Javert narrowed his eyes at the men.

“Your man Jean Valjean gave him some trouble, I believe,” Gilbert said. “Don’t worry, sir, Delrue will sort it out.”

This did nothing to calm Javert. Valjean had been obedient enough during the past week—still choosing to sleep on the floor, but obeying Javert’s wishes in everything else. Javert had not once been forced to make use of the stash of red peppers from Cayenne or his belt.

What was it that caused Valjean’s sudden moods? There was no pattern that he could see…

His own mood having drastically worsened, Javert rose and abandoned his desk. His work was done, in any case; it was early yet for his dinner and Valjean was not there to serve it, so instead Javert took his coat and his hat and went for a walk along the Canche, returning through the narrow alleys where the women of the town plied their business.

By the time he returned to his apartment, it was dark. He lit the stove, then poured himself a glass of wine, pondering how he was going to deal with Valjean’s disobedience today. Perhaps it would have to be the belt—no matter what, he’d force some sense into Valjean’s stubborn head.

Then the door opened and Valjean entered. Valjean was on his own. Javert, who had expected Delrue to accompany him to give him a full report on the man’s misconduct, frowned when Valjean closed the door behind him and slowly advanced towards him. Valjean did not meet his gaze—good; at least Valjean was aware that he had misbehaved and was appropriately penitent.

Javert eyed him sharply, then pointed to the floor.

Valjean seemed to hesitate for a moment. There was a rebellious look on his face, his mouth a firm, narrow line as he sank to his knees at last. When Javert reached out for his head, he actually flinched away.

With a frown, Javert grabbed a fistful of his hair, ignoring Valjean’s pained gasp as he pulled him closer.

“What’s the matter with you today?” Javert demanded impatiently. “I’ve already heard all about your offenses today, and now you think you can act up here as well? What brought this about—is it just another of your sullen moods?”

Valjean did look sullen, his lips tightly pressed together, his eyes blazing with fury for once instead of the usual expression of quiet suffering that was infuriatingly akin to that of a martyr.

“Don’t test me,” Javert said. “I’m already in a bad mood. So you think you can act up when I’m not around, is that it? I’ve heard all about how you clashed with Delrue today. Never mind, I can see I will have to beat the respect for him into you.”

Valjean was breathing quickly, his chest rising and falling. There was a sheen of sweat on the skin that was bared at his throat, and when Javert tightened his grip on his hair in warning, Valjean made an involuntary sound, his eyes wide with an instinctive panic Javert hadn’t seen in a while.

Javert scoffed. “It truly is like trying to teach a mule. For God’s sake, I’m not going to hurt your head, Valjean, so stop it. I have other ways of trying to beat some sense into you—and right now I’m quite of a mind to take my belt to your backside. If you act out against one of my men, not only do you act out against me, but you also embarrass me in front of them. That’s what you’ve done today. You’ve shown Delrue that I don’t have you fully under control. Maybe that’s why you did it. But you won’t do it again; I’ll make sure of that.”

Valjean’s breath came in little pants, and Javert, frustrated with this sudden setback that seemed to have come out of nowhere, clenched his hand in Valjean’s hair to give his head an impatient shake.

Valjean’s eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, looking much like a spooked horse—though surely Javert had never given him a reason to believe he’d start cuffing him about the head. Javert felt indignation rise up in him, and utter bafflement at this man who kept frustrating him with his moods.

And then Javert’s fingers touched something warm and sticky, and he frowned.

Valjean made another sound and tried to instinctively recoil when Javert probed his head, but Javert did not release him. The patch of skin beneath his fingers was hot and swollen.

What had come to pass here? Had Valjean accidentally injured himself while working? Was that what had made him clash with Delrue? The man would have no idea how to read Valjean’s moods…

“Hold still,” Javert said sternly, and after a moment, still breathing heavily, Valjean quieted. “Good. Now tilt your head forward. Let me see.”

Another moment of hesitation, and then Valjean’s shoulders slumped and he obeyed.

Javert was careful when he parted the short hair. Valjean’s hair was naturally dark, but now that he knew what to look for, he could see where it had clumped together with dried blood.

The wound was not large, fortunately; it would be tender for a few days, but then should heal on its own.

“So that’s why,” Javert muttered. “And here I thought you’d gone mad. Well, accidents happen, I suppose. Can’t blame you for that. Still. I will touch you where and how I please, and you will let me. That hasn’t changed. Understood?”

He released Valjean’s head, and Valjean nodded miserably.

That was more like it. With a smile, Javert reached out to cup Valjean’s face, drawing his thumb along Valjean’s lips to reinforce that message.

And then he found himself stopped once more, for something about Valjean’s lips felt off as well. One side of his bottom lip was noticeably warmer and felt somewhat swollen.

Javert frowned. “Look at me,” he said, and when Valjean’s head rose obediently, he gently slipped a finger in between Valjean’s lip and his teeth, pulling his lip down.

There, on the tender pink skin on the inside of Valjean’s lip, was a wound. It must have stopped bleeding a while ago, but the flesh was hot and reddened; one of Valjean’s teeth must have made a deep incision there.

Javert exhaled with displeasure. “Does that hurt?”

Valjean’s eyes warily met his. He no longer looked quite as panicked as he had earlier, when Javert had examined his head. Slowly, he inclined his head.

Javert released Valjean’s lip. Lost in thought, he stroked a fingertip along the uninjured upper lip; after a moment, Valjean hesitantly caught his finger with his mouth.

One wound could be an accident. Two, on the other hand…

The familiar wet heat of Valjean’s mouth had begun to stir a just as familiar heat in him, but Javert paid it no attention as he pulled his finger free.

“Stand up,” he said quietly. “Take off your shirt.”

Valjean licked his lips. The anger blazing in his eyes earlier seemed to have gone out of him; perhaps the panic when Javert had toyed with his head had burned it away, or he had at last come to remember that Javert was not an unreasonable man, as long as Valjean remembered his manners.

Valjean’s chest was gleaming with a thin layer of sweat. There was no dirt on him; as usual, he had to have washed in the barracks and pulled on clean clothes before coming to serve Javert. Nevertheless, there were two patches of darkened skin which could not be smudges of mud.

Bruises.

“Turn around,” Javert commanded.

A part of him had known what he would see, but the indignation and anger rising up inside him at the sight still surprised him with its force.

Valjean’s back was covered in red welts. They were fresh—it had been a while since Javert had last been forced to take a switch or a belt to him, especially as the peppers had proved to be a far more powerful deterrent to Valjean’s occasional bouts of petulance.

Javert’s stomach churned, his chest tight with sudden fury. When he reached out to touch Valjean’s back, Valjean flinched but didn’t pull away. Tracing a welt, Javert could feel the heat of Valjean’s skin.

Not a belt—a switch, perhaps, or a cane.

Javert stared at where his fingers pressed against a reddened weal.

“What happened?”

Valjean shrugged awkwardly, the gesture making reddened skin pull tight over the bones of his shoulder blades. “I angered Delrue, sir.”

Javert had known it from the moment he’d first become aware of the wound on Valjean’s head, but even so, the sudden rise of anger in him nearly took his breath away. Who did Delrue think he was, to avail himself of Javert’s privileges?

Javert struggled to keep himself under control. It was true that Valjean was merely an indentured servant, and that Delrue had been sent to oversee his work and make certain that he behaved. And he knew Valjean—it was only too likely that Valjean had fallen into one of his spells of rebellion and brought this on himself.

Still—this wasn’t one whack with a cane to get Valjean back in line, followed by a report to Javert. From the looks of the welts, Delrue had been vicious—and not only that. There was the swollen lip, the bruised skin of his stomach, the cut at his head.

“He beat you.”

Valjean nodded, still looking strangely wary, as if he was surprised by Javert’s fury.

“And those bruises on your stomach?”

Valjean grimaced. “He kicked me when I fell.”

“And he slapped you?”

Valjean nodded warily, his eyes on Javert.

“And the wound on your head—a glancing blow with the cane?”

Valjean’s shoulders came up, hunching together protectively as if the mere memory made him want to shy away from Javert.

“I fell when he beat me, sir. He did not like that.”

Javert struggled with the indignation and anger that image provoked. He well remembered Delrue’s familiarity with him. Right now, he was half of a mind to get a cane and give Delrue a good thrashing himself.

Of course, that was impossible—Valjean was merely an indentured servant, after all, and a dangerous convict. Delrue, on the other hand, was a police agent and a man under Javert’s command. One could not employ the same methods of discipline for such men.

Nevertheless, with Valjean’s skin hot and sore beneath his fingertips, it was almost impossible to contain his anger.

Had Delrue merely overestimated his own importance? Any other agent would have given Valjean a whack or two to keep him in line and then reported to Javert, for it was the Chief of Police’s prerogative to see that justice was meted out to the men under his supervision.

What next—would Delrue take it upon himself to investigate and make arrests, to send reports to the Prefecture? To demand other services of Valjean, as if he were not merely a spy who reported to Javert?

If the thought of Delrue whipping Valjean had made Javert indignant, the thought of Delrue forcing Valjean to his knees and making use of his mouth had him incandescent with rage.

For a moment, Javert contemplated having Delrue summoned back to the station-house to give him the talking-to he deserved. Even now, the memory of Delrue’s insouciant smile made anger rise inside him—and yet, he had risen too far to not be aware of the dangers that might come from gaining a certain reputation. Not for a man with his background and parentage.

He needed to remember that this town was merely a stepping stone. Sooner or later, Javert would leave, never to return—and he would leave Delrue behind together with the provincialism of this small town.

No, he’d have to deal with Delrue, but he’d do it tomorrow, when he was calm enough to think of a way to get the man to learn his lesson.

And today...

“I will leave your head alone,” Javert said. “That will heal on its own.”

There was a relief in his eyes as Valjean nodded.

“Your stomach?”

“Bruises, sir,” Valjean said quietly. “I know what it feels like when its not.”

“Very well.” It was true; if a rib had been broken or an organ damaged, even Valjean would not have been able to walk into his room as if nothing was the matter with him. “Then go and stand by the wash basin. I’ll clean your back.”

The welts on Valjean’s back did not truly need attention either; it was no worse than what he had suffered before at Javert’s hands. Nevertheless, the sight of them on Valjean’s skin still made him furious. Deserved or not, it had not been Delrue’s right to mete out that kind of punishment. Javert would have to find a way to deal with the man.

There would be no rebellion in this town, not while he was Chief of Police—neither from the indentured servants, nor from one of his own men.


	27. Chapter 27

Valjean flinched when the wet cloth first touched his back. Javert was careful, almost gentle, and the coolness of the water was soothing. Valjean tensed when Javert wiped along his nape—but true to his promise, Javert left his head alone after that, returning to slide the cold, wet cloth over the hot welts until the throb of pain began to ease somewhat.

“What did you do?” Javert asked after a moment, as if the almost companionable silence was as disconcerting to him as it was to Valjean. “No—I already know that. Why did you do it?”

Valjean stared down into the bowl of water, his hands splayed on the dark wood of the desk. In the water, he could see a dull reflection of his face.

Finally he closed his eyes, releasing a weary breath. “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t like the way he shouted at me.”

Javert made an amused sound. “You’re not that stupid, Valjean. Try again.”

Valjean remained silent for a moment. His entire body ached. The cold water was soothing, but right now, more than ever, he yearned for the private bedroom and the soft bed that had been his alone for many years.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at Fantine, sir,” he admitted quietly. And if Fantine had been given an opportunity to start a fight with Delrue, not only might it have ended badly for her, but then certainly Javert would have summoned her to serve his food this evening instead of Valjean.

As easy as his weariness sometimes made it to fall into complacency, he needed to remember that there were limits to Javert’s obsession with him. And as much as Fantine had not wanted his protection, he wasn’t only doing this for her sake. He already carried so much guilt with him. To know her here in his place instead—how would he be able to sleep?

A beating was a better way to spend the night than the sleepless hours of torment that he’d find in his bed in the barracks.

“And you think it is your right to interfere?” Javert laughed against the back of his neck. “Maybe the fault lies with me if both of you, two men under my authority, think you can simply assume privileges that are not yours. Is that it, Valjean? Am I too lax in my discipline?”

“What would you have me do, sir?” Valjean said bitterly, still staring at the bowl of water. “Shall I come to complain to you about Delrue, so that you can beat me for impertinence instead of him, and meanwhile Fantine has to suffer his attentions?”

“There’s something about that woman that brings out the worst in you,” Javert muttered. “I wonder why that is. She’s pretty enough, but if you’d had her, you wouldn’t have fired her—not you.”

“I told you. It’s because it is my fault that she’s even here.”

“So you say. But surely that’s no reason for your constant disobedience. Maybe it’s because I make it too easy for you. You don’t like it when it’s easy. You’ll only submit after a fight, every time. Even though you’re astute enough to realize that it could be easy. Is that it?”

Stung, Valjean straightened and turned to face Javert, although he bit back the reply on his tongue just in time. “Maybe it’s because it shouldn’t be easy. Maybe it’s because you have no right to—”

He bit back the words that had wanted to burst free just in time, struggling for breath as he stared at Javert.

Javert only smiled. “It’s that damned temper of yours. Can’t beat it out of you, though I’m starting to think that’s what you want.”

“No man wants to be beaten for speaking the truth.”

“That’s because _your_ truth doesn’t count, Valjean. It did when you were a magistrate, when people didn’t know better. But do you know what that is, the truth of a convict? Disrespect. Rebellion. Sullenness. And you know what truth counts now, don’t you?”

Valjean took another deep breath, still fighting the instinctive need to lash out despite the beating it had already earned him.

“Yours does, sir,” he said grudgingly.

Javert smiled. “That’s right. You know it. Don’t forget it again.”

For a moment, Javert stared at him. Impotently, Valjean clenched his fists, struggling to keep his breathing under control. Something was burning in his eyes, and he averted his face, squeezing his eyes shut as well until it passed.

“No, sir,” he said at last, his voice hoarse, although Javert mercifully did not comment on it.

“Good. Now serve my dinner.”

***

Later, after Javert was done and Valjean had cleared his table, Javert retreated into his chair by the stove with a book. Valjean poured him more of his wine, and when Javert motioned at the floor, Valjean sank obediently to his knees, his beaten body still aching dully.

“How is your head?” Javert asked.

Instinct made Valjean immediately jerk back. “It’s fine. It will heal.”

“Let me check it again.” Javert made an impatient gesture when Valjean stared reluctantly at his hand.

At last, after taking a deep breath, he forced himself to lean forward, his shoulders hunching in discomfort as he bent his head. From this angle, he could not see Javert’s hand. Javert could do whatever he wanted, and Valjean wouldn’t know until it was too late—

Valjean flinched when Javert touched his hair.

“Hold still,” Javert said firmly. “I’ve told you before, I’m not going to mess with your head. But I will touch, and you will let me.”

Silent but tense, Valjean suffered through the examination. Despite Javert’s obvious frustration at finding him as skittish as a beaten horse, his touch was careful and patient.

“I’d pour some salt water over it,” Javert muttered, his fingers holding his hair out of the way, “but it’ll heal well enough, I think. And you would rather I leave it alone, don’t you?”

Even now, Valjean’s heart was beating erratically in his breast, his throat tight. He knew Javert wouldn’t harm him—not like this, not Javert. Javert liked to prove his mastery with a cane or a belt. He was an ambitious man, who’d long since realized that to move to the position of authority he desired, he’d have to leave the pettiness of the guards in the hulks behind.

Still, despite that knowledge, the panic the touches had aroused were hard to fight, Javert’s hands on his head bringing back memories of men more petty than him—rough barbers with dull blades who had only laughed when a blade nicked the skin of a convict’s head, guards who took delight in roughing a man up.

“Please, sir,” Valjean said roughly, and Javert chuckled as he patted the uninjured side of his head.

“Very well. I’ll have another look tomorrow.”

Javert did not actually release his head, and so Valjean had no choice but to remain on his knees before him, head bowed, as Javert’s fingers traced across his shorn hair.

It wasn’t so bad, he told himself even as his heart kept racing. Javert’s touch was slow and regular, making certain to stay away from the wound, his thumb rubbing a gentle circle behind his ear. Despite the tension thrumming in his body, Valjean forced himself to hold still for it. If Javert wanted to spend his evening petting him like a favored horse or cat, who was he to deny him?

Every now and then, the regular motions ceased and Javert would lower his wineglass to Valjean’s lips, allowing him to sip. Valjean drank gratefully, his throat parched from the instinctive panic, which now at last began to recede.

Javert refilled his glass once or twice, always returning to stroke Valjean’s head—surely still glorying in the convict haircut, but Valjean found it hard to resent that now, grateful for the quiet. It was rare to have moments to himself in Javert’s apartment, and although he was not truly alone right now, Javert seemed content enough to leave him to his own thoughts.

Little by little, he relaxed, allowing Javert’s leg to his right to take some of his weight. The fire had nearly died down when he realized with sudden shock that as the time had passed, he must have dozed off. Somehow, he had come to rest with his head on Javert’s knee, Javert’s fingers still in his hair. He couldn’t recall how he’d ended up in that position. He must have been asleep, at least for a few minutes, for he could still dimly recall that a sound had woken him—perhaps a log shifting in the stove, as the room was still warm.

Javert hadn’t roused him. In fact, when he cautiously looked up, he found that Javert’s eyes were closed as well, his face relaxed. His hand was still buried in Valjean’s hair, although it had ceased moving.

Valjean contemplating getting up—it was a rare chance to have some moments to himself in Javert’s room. His knees were aching and he was tired; he could use the chance to stretch his legs, perhaps to take Javert’s Bible or one of his books and read a few pages.

Valjean found he couldn’t move. It was rare to see Javert at ease, and strangely difficult to look away. At rest, the sternness of his features softened, Javert seemed younger—not innocent, but not so different from other men he had known, weary after a long day.

Had he ever seen Javert at ease in the hulks? He must have—there must have been days of leisure for Javert, perhaps spent practicing his reading in a shadowed corner where the breeze from the sea could reach him, or afternoons joking with the other guards.

And yet all Valjean could remember was the outline of a man tormenting him, the eyes that had always been staring with suspicion, the way Valjean had been dragged through streets, circled, shoved.

If anyone back then had asked him if guards ever slept, ever read, ever amused themselves, he would have stared without understanding—or, perhaps, if he’d understood, he would have spit and turned away.

He’d been an animal back then, because he had been treated like one—which in turn had made him see the guards that tormented them as little better, a pack of vicious dogs that had been set to incarcerate wolves.

It was different here. Javert had changed; Javert had wanted better than the hulks for himself, and he’d risen in the world. Valjean understood; he had wanted the same, though for a different reason.

In shedding the animal, he’d shed that animal blindness as well. It was impossible now to look at Javert and feel the old, impotent rage of the convict.

Then his gaze dropped from Javert’s face further down and he froze, his musings forgotten when he found himself face to face with a bulge in Javert’s trousers.

Javert’s touch had been gentle—but even so, there were things Javert desired, ways to establish his authority, and it mattered little what Valjean wanted or not.

Valjean swallowed, thinking again of the one thing he knew Javert wanted, and which he had not demanded. Had Valjean been wrong to shy away from the thing? What right had he to deny Javert when after all it was only right that he suffer?

Javert had been wrong to leave him a choice. 

Had he been forced to do it, it would have been easy—Valjean knew in his heart of hearts that he deserved it, after all. Even with the choice he’d been given, if he’d overcome his pride and bent to Javert’s will right then at the beginning, he would have been over his shame after a day or two. Now, after months had passed, the task had built up before him until it had grown into a mountain, all because of his own stubbornness. To do it now would be no little thing—now, it would be a final surrender, a final submission to Javert’s will after months of struggle.

It was Valjean who had turned a small thing into what would be a great victory for Javert.

Perhaps even now, the easiest thing would be to simply get over with it, to swallow his pride just as he swallowed everything else Javert gave him. After a few days of shame, it would no longer matter.

There were worse things that could happen to him. He knew that well—better than most men. His aching body had learned that lesson anew today.

Valjean rested a hand on Javert’s thigh, still looking at where Javert’s arousal stretched beneath the fabric.

It would be very easy. Easier even than at any other moment: with Javert still asleep, he could reach out and open his trousers and take him into his mouth, and when Javert woke, he would already be too distracted to taunt Valjean with his surrender.

Valjean kept staring, unmoving. His fingers lightly curled against Javert’s thigh, but even though he knew that this was the best opportunity to get it over with as painlessly as possible, he could not make himself move.

Long minutes passed. The fire was crackling in the stove. Valjean sat unmoving, looking at Javert, and at last Javert shifted.

Sleepily, he reached out again, running his hand over Valjean’s head. Then, unabashed, he dropped his hand into his own lap, pressing the heel of his palm against his cock, massaging lightly as he held Valjean’s gaze.

For a moment, Valjean thought it would happen now—that Javert was as tired of this game as he was, this weight hanging over him whenever he was in this room.

Then, with a low moan, Javert’s hand dropped away. “Get me ready for bed,” he said, nodding at the door to the bedroom.

Valjean obeyed silently, ignoring the ache of his knees as he rose. His body was stiff, his bruised muscles aching, and by the time he had undressed Javert and folded his clothes, the thought of surrendering that last bit of himself and sleeping in Javert’s soft bed had become more tempting than ever.

Javert was still hard, watching Valjean thoughtfully.

“Come here,” he said at last, and Valjean obediently joined him on the bed.

“Kiss me.”

Valjean swallowed, inexplicably nervous even after all these weeks as he hesitated a moment and then leaned forward. The mattress was soft against his aching knees, and for all that Javert was as harsh and unyielding as steel, it was impossible to hate him when his mouth was softness and heat. Perhaps that was why, even now, it was kissing Javert that scared him the most.

It was easy to remember that what he was doing was a sacrifice, a punishment, when he spread himself out on Javert’s bed waiting to be used.

But with Javert’s lips against his own, his own tongue sliding against Javert’s until something in his stomach shifted and coiled with heat despite his uncertainty, it was impossible to think of punishment. With Javert’s taste and scent in his mouth and his nose, with Javert’s tongue soft and vulnerable against his own, all that remained was Javert the man.

That was perhaps the hardest lesson he had learned—and not from Javert’s hand, not from the fall of the belt or the whip. Left to itself, his body was enjoying Javert’s closeness, this false intimacy that was impossible to resist even so.

Javert had never needed to tell him to kiss him more than once, after all. And now, as before, Valjean found himself slowly rousing, his cock sliding against Javert’s stomach, Javert’s own shaft still hard against his thigh.

At last, Javert gently pushed at his shoulders until they were resting on their sides. One of the welts on his back ached, but it was bearable enough—preferable to being pushed onto his back, anyway. When Javert slid a hand between their bodies Valjean soon forgot even about that twinge of pain.

Slowly, Javert began to stroke them together. To his embarrassment, Valjean could hear himself moaning into the kiss. Mere hours ago, he’d cowered on the ground as Delrue had beaten him—and here he was, arching eagerly into Javert’s hand.

Shame twisted in his stomach, but he was achingly hard nevertheless, Javert’s grip pleasingly tight. There was nothing teasing about it, no tormenting, no drawing it out. Javert’s touch was firm and so demanding that Valjean found himself wrapping an arm around Javert’s shoulder, clutching at him as his hips came forward for more of his touch. Javert’s cock was just as hard as his own, his skin hot and damp with sweat. As Valjean trembled on the brink of release, aching with a need that made him dig his fingers into Javert’s shoulder, he hungrily slid his tongue deep into Javert’s mouth, all his earlier shame forgotten.

It was Javert who came first, his release spilling hot and slick over Valjean’s own cock. Javert groaned in deep satisfaction, keeping up his strokes as Valjean moaned and pushed demandingly into his hand—and then he too, found release, breaking the kiss at last to pant against the damp skin of Javert’s chest as he shuddered, spurt after spurt spilling from him as he mouthed at sweaty skin.

Javert was the first to move, reaching out for a rag to wipe them down.

On any other day, Valjean would have roused first to go to the washbasin and then clean Javert before wiping himself down and settling at last on the floor. Today, exhausted beyond thought, the promise of the soft mattress for the night seemed no longer such a high price to pay for what would be expected of him in return. His body ached, and he was weary. They both knew it had to happen. Why not simply let it happen now?

Several minutes passed. Then, gently but firmly, Javert nudged him upright.

“You’ll sleep on the floor tonight,” he said. “I have no desire for a surrender brought about by Delrue’s hands.”

Valjean laughed hoarsely. Inexplicably, his eyes stung, and he turned his head away. “You could have just forced me. All this time...”

“The floor, Valjean,” Javert said again.

Tiredly, Valjean obeyed, his sore body protesting at the thought of the wooden boards and the single blanket. It wasn’t so bad, he told himself—the room was warm enough thanks to the stove. The blanket could pad the floor beneath him tonight.

A moment later, one of Javert’s blankets was pushed to the floor.

“Sleep,” Javert said. Then he turned off the lamp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the irregular updates right now, there've been too many exchanges plus I've got a vacation coming up - hopefully next month will be back to regular weekly chapters.


	28. Chapter 28

Valjean rose slowly in the morning, attending to all his usual duties without complaint, although Javert could see that the bruises had begun to darken, and that Valjean was moving more slowly than usual.

Valjean had not brought up the preceding night, and as he watched Valjean, still bare, muscles gleaming as he quietly washed by the window, Javert pondered whether he had been wrong to send Valjean back to the floor. It had taken a long time for Valjean to bend so far. Did it truly matter that it had only happened after Delrue’s beating? It made one thing more obvious after all: it was only Valjean’s pride holding him back, for he had never offered his surrender in such a way after Javert had beaten him.

No, it mattered. As Javert watched, unashamed, as Valjean drew the wet cloth over shifting stomach muscles thrown into hard relief by the early morning sun, he felt the familiar hunger rise up in him.

Having that power at his mercy was the most gratifying thing he had ever experienced. But what made Valjean’s surrender so satisfying was how hard-won it was. Valjean was too stubborn to yield easily. And when he would at last yield, even in this, he’d do it fully aware of what he was doing—and not simply because he was tired and aching after an encounter with Delrue.

After Javert had eaten breakfast, he pointed at the floor once more, and Valjean, who had been in the process of clearing his table, reluctantly put his plate back down and came closer, sinking to his knees in front of Javert.

“Let me see your head,” Javert said.

Although Valjean obeyed with obvious hesitation, he was no longer as panicked as he had been the day before. As Javert parted his short hair, his thumb tracing along an old scar, he found himself idly wondering what experiences had left a man of such brutal strength with such an aversion to having his head touched.

It was true, the barbers in the hulks were not gentle—but that could hardly be expected of them, having to shear thieves and murderers day after day, many of which would be glad to murder them, too, if it wasn’t for the chains on them.

Had there been a guard or two, perhaps, who’d found a weakness to exploit?

Unsettled, Javert realized that imagining one of the men he’d commanded a decade ago laying hands on Valjean made indignation rise up in him. To feel indignation at Delrue’s obvious disrespect for what was more or less Javert’s property, or at least a perk of his position, was one thing. But the guards in the hulks, illiterate scum that they were for the most part, had a job to do. Cuffing an obstinate convict around the head was a thing he’d observed without a second thought a thousand times. Valjean had been one of hundreds of men deserving way worse.

What had changed that made the very idea so upsetting now?

Javert forced himself to forget about the old scars and inspect the wound instead. It had scabbed over; there was no fresh blood to be seen. Dried blood still clung to Valjean’s hair, but Javert decided to leave it alone for now. The wound was small, in any case. Half a finger’s length of skin had split open at a glancing blow with the end of the cane that had most probably been meant for Valjean’s shoulder.

“Healing well.” He released Valjean, who moved his head out of reach with obvious relief. “You will behave today, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Valjean said obediently—but then, he would have promised the same thing a day ago.

It did not matter; Delrue would not oversee the indentured servants today. Javert did not tell Valjean, for Valjean had no need to know how displeased Javert was with Delrue’s behavior. And Javert still expected all the indentured servants to follow the commands of his agents.

Regardless of Delrue’s behavior, it hadn’t been Valjean’s place to deal with Delrue—just as it hadn’t been Delrue’s place to deal with Valjean.

It was afternoon by the time Javert finally found time to order Delrue to come to the station-house. Gilbert kept an eye on the indentured servants today, who’d been sent to deal with the overgrowth of weeds and young trees that grew close to the ramparts. Javert meanwhile had found work for the other spies he employed, ensuring that when Delrue came by to report to him, they were alone.

“I heard there was a problem yesterday,” Javert said, seated behind his desk and studying Delrue, who stood before him.

Delrue seemed to be in a good mood, and Javert marveled once more at the man’s attitude. Did he truly believe that he had a right to assume Javert’s position? Not too long ago, Javert would have said that if Delrue continued to prove himself reliable, he might, as the years passed, eventually come to assume a position like Javert’s. Perhaps even in Montreuil, although Javert doubted that—the town was growing quickly, and within a decade, the position he now held might be prestigious enough that only a man with good connections might assume it. In the eyes of the citizens of Montreuil, Delrue would never be more than a mere police spy—unless he, like Javert, found a way to distinguish himself in the eyes of his superiors.

Was that what Delrue’s game was about? But surely the man was smarter than that. Javert had no influence in Paris—not yet. If Delrue hoped for a position in Paris, several years would pass before Javert could hope to be in a position himself where he might have such influence. Likewise, the town’s electors had not thought highly of Javert before he unmasked Jean Valjean. Even now, they respected him only begrudgingly. In their eyes, he would always be a stranger. He’d seen the way they’d watched him at first, after all.

“You wanted to see me?” Delrue said, then continue without waiting for Javert’s answer, “I know you’ll want to know what Valjean got up to yesterday. He’s a handful, isn’t he? Even when he was mayor, he didn’t dare to shout at me like that. But I don’t think he’ll do it again.”

“I did not see any report on yesterday’s events on my table this morning,” Javert said.

Delrue did not seem to notice his mood, for he laughed and shrugged. “Is that really necessary, sir? We all know he’s a convict. He acted up, we taught him a lesson, he’ll behave for a while until he tries it again.”

“ _You,_ “ Javert said. “You taught him a lesson. No _we_ involved there. Isn’t that right?”

Delrue licked his lip, then nodded, some of his amusement fading away as he at last seemed to realize that Javert did not share his good mood. “Of course, sir. I can write that report for you now, if you want...”

There was another difference. Delrue was not a good writer and no great reader, but whereas Javert had realized as a child that his natural inclinations would not help him to overcome his background, Delrue had, perhaps, found it easier to make do with what he knew, instead of systematically forcing himself to focus on his weaknesses. If Delrue had indeed the ambitions Javert had assumed he had, would he not have invested additional effort to prove to Javert that he had the skills needed?

“It is no matter of want,” Javert said coldly. “You know that. I will have a report, in writing, to be filed with all the other reports, on my desk every morning. It makes no difference that it concerns one of the indentured servants.”

“Very well,” Delrue said. “I assume that’s all?”

“You assume wrong. And not for the first time this week. I suggest that you think very well before _assuming_ again. I am willing to let you off with only a warning this time, but—”

“Is it about that Valjean, sir?” For a moment, Delrue looked outraged, as if it had not even occurred to him that Javert might take exception to his assumptions.

That explained part of it—it had not been a deliberate test of Javert’s limits then.

“The man shouted at me. The way he looked, he would have attacked at any moment. He’s just a convict—”

“He’s an indentured servant, and I am the chief of police of this town.” Javert stared at Delrue without moving, remaining silent until Delrue sullenly lowered his eyes. “You will not assume my duties until explicitly told so by myself. Am I clear?”

Delrue’s jaw moved. “Clear, sir,” he said at last.

“Good.” Javert made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “That’s all for today.”

Delrue nodded. “I am sorry I kept you from your duties, sir. I know you are very busy.”

His eyes were unreadable, but even so Javert thought he’d seen his lips quirk for a moment.

He might have imagined it, Javert told himself when Delrue turned and left. Surely the man cared too much about his work to endanger it in such a way.

Delrue had nothing to gain by opposing him—and over something as ridiculous as a convict! Still. He would have to keep an eye on Delrue. He could always fire him, of course—but then he’d be down his most reliable man. Gilbert was the only other man he fully trusted to do his job.

It would be a damn shame to have to get rid of him.

***

After a week of constant, drizzling rain, it seemed that the gray clouds had at last moved further inland. The sky was a glorious blue, the sun bright, and although the streets and narrow alleys of Montreuil were filled by white mist in the morning now, it seemed that they had been granted another period of good weather before winter would relentlessly approach.

It was a Sunday. Javert had idly contemplated spending an hour or two going over reports, but the week had been quiet, and with the weather like this, he did not expect any trouble in town—not until the late afternoon, at least, when men would gather in the taverns.

Instead, Javert pulled a book at random from the small collection on his shelf, barely giving the title a glimpse before he tucked it away in a pocket and stood. He felt strangely restless. Perhaps some exercise would do him good.

In the stable, he passed by Noiraude, who jealously turned her ears back and gave the wall of Doré’s box a kick when Javert stopped in front of the gelding. Javert frowned at her; in turn she pointedly turned away from him.

Shaking his head at the mare’s jealous antics, he opened the gelding’s box. Doré hadn’t received much exercise lately either. After Noiraude had been injured in the incident with the bull—an incident that could be blamed on the convict Jean Valjean, or so he had argued in his letter to the Prefecture—he had been given leave to make use of Valjean’s gelding instead.

He’d been fortunate; no doubt that decision was partly brought about by the high amount of interest Valjean’s case had caused in Paris. In addition to the chief inspector’s inertia, of course. To let Javert proceed with the horse as he had done was certain to cause Gisquet the least amount of work, after all, and in the eyes of his superiors, could be turned into a deserved reward for the agent who had unmasked Valjean.

No, Javert did not think he would find much active encouragement of his own career from that man—but neither would Gisquet’s lethargy pose an obstacle for him.

Javert had made certain to keep in contact with Rivette, exchanging a letter every now and then, and while Rivette was not the sort of man to speak badly of a superior, Javert had learned enough to feel confident that, once given a position in the Prefecture, he’d manage well enough. Gisquet might not be overjoyed to have a man of Javert’s background serve beneath him, but the chief inspector had little ambition of his own and would surely be relieved to have a loyal man he could depend upon.

Sooner or later, Gisquet would have his wish and find a less exciting government position—or even, if luck was on his side and his family connections could indeed support him that far, find himself rising to the prefect’s chair. In any case, such a rise would take Gisquet years, and Javert intended to be in a position where he might have a chance to take over the chief inspector’s chair himself.

Doré blew against his hand, pulling him from his thoughts. Javert stroked the proudly arched neck, fur glistening gold beneath his touch, then began to prepare the gelding for a ride.

The town was bustling, men and women walking in the sunshine. Javert lifted his hat when he encounter Mayor Regnier. 

Idly, he wondered what Valjean was up to. He’d sent him back to the barracks after Valjean had washed and dressed him in the morning. Valjean didn’t attend Mass, he knew that—Valjean had shame enough, at least, to try and avoid the eye of the public now.

Had he asked Valjean, he was sure that Valjean would have had some pious answer—praying, most likely, or perhaps spending this beautiful day alone in the barracks reading his Bible.

Javert chuckled to himself, then turned Doré onto the path that led along the Canche north, towards where it would eventually reach the ocean. He had no intention of riding that far; still, the day was beautiful and the horse needed exercise, and if Javert had to waste the afternoon reading, he could just as well search for a sunny spot by the river to do so.

The path stretched before him, Doré’s flaxen mane rippling in the wind. Between his thighs, Javert could feel the gelding’s strength. A fine horse indeed. Many years would pass before he’d be able to afford a horse like that on his own—and in Paris, of course, a man in his position would have no need for a horse bred to race across fields and forests. In Paris, in time, he’d have a carriage at his disposal.

He tightened his legs around the gelding’s warm body, Doré’s ears curiously tilting towards him as the gelding collected himself beneath him, muscular haunches coming far forward beneath his body to carry his weight.

Then Javert loosened his tight grip on the reins, and the horse darted forward like an arrow loosed from the bow. Doré was as fast as the wind, the golden body stretching beneath them as they thundered along the dusty path. Javert could hear no sound but that of the wind in his ears and Doré’s hooves on the road.

He’d come a long way since the stinking prison hulks of Toulon.

He smiled fiercely at that thought and nudged Doré’s sides in encouragement, and in turn the gelding snorted and stretched his powerful body further, impossibly increasing his speed until his mane fluttered in the wind like a standard of gold and the river to their right was nothing but a blur of blue.

When Doré finally slowed, Javert was as breathless as the horse. The gelding’s golden fur was dark with sweat, but even so he lifted his legs energetically, blowing air from his nostrils in exhausted satisfaction. The Canche was still flowing slowly on their right, the water mirroring the bright blue of the sky above. Not far ahead, a willow stood, its trailing branches touching the water.

Someone was sitting at the riverbank beneath the willow.

Doré’s ears perked up in recognition as he snorted a greeting, but Javert had recognized the man sitting there even before the horse had.

It was Jean Valjean, sitting in the shadow of the willow with a book in his lap. And by his side, there sat a woman.


	29. Chapter 29

“ _But he shall save the needy from the sword of their mouth, and the poor from the hand of the violent._ There. Now you try.” Embarrassed, Valjean realized that there was dirt beneath the ragged line of his nail as he carefully traced along the next sentence.

Fantine leaned towards him, frowning at the Bible in his hand. They had not progressed very far yet—only a few weeks had passed since Valjean had first tentatively offered to teach her to read and write. She had been suspicious at first, but given how much she disliked having to depend on Javert to read her the innkeepers’ letters and to pen notes to Cosette for her, Valjean had to have appeared the lesser evil.

During the past weeks, they’d used what rare free moments they had. By now, Fantine was able to slowly make her way through a sentence at a time.

“ _And to the needy there shall be hope, but—_ ” Fantine halted, trying to work out a more complex word.

“That one’s difficult,” Valjean said. “Try going letter by letter.”

Fantine pressed her lips together. “Will you do me a favor,” she said a moment later.

“If I can,” Valjean said cautiously. These days, there was not much left he could do for her, save for empty gestures like these. There had been a time when he could have done much more—and he’d squandered it.

“I want to write a letter. To Cosette.”

From a pocket, she produced a crumpled sheet of paper and the stump of a pencil. “No pen and ink, but it will suffice, won’t it? It’s from the hospital. Sister Simplice let me have it when we helped with the linens yesterday.”

“I didn’t think you’d stolen it,” Valjean said.

“She saw me stop for a moment to try and read the title of a book that was on her desk. I told her that you’re teaching me to read. You don’t mind, do you? Sister Simplice still treats me like I’m…” Fantine hesitated, then her mouth twisted bitterly. “She still treats me like an honest woman. She asked me about Cosette.”

“I don’t mind.”

“She is leaving, you know.” Fantine’s lips tightened. “Soon. Before the snow makes travel difficult. She’s going to a convent in Paris. She said that after what they’d done to you, and with the way the new mayor is running things… He’s not going to keep paying for those hospital beds you paid for.”

“No. I didn’t think he would,” Valjean said quietly, his eyes still on the Bible.

“You could have done as he did. Saved your money. Bought a fake passport. Sold the factory.”

“There are some things one cannot run from.” Valjean clenched his right hand, remembering the weight of the red-hot coin. “And I could have done more. I could have done so much more. You know that.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “Still. Those people in those hospital beds you paid for, they wouldn’t agree with me, would they?”

“I’m still a convict,” he told her. “I’ve done terrible things. Paying for a doctor and for a few teachers doesn’t change that.”

“Perhaps. But I, too, have met people who’ve done terrible things. People with more money than you had. None of them would’ve spent a single moment wondering about the amount of beds in their local hospital, or whether there was a schoolteacher visiting nearby villages.”

“Did they steal a coin from a small child?” he asked her bitterly, and in answer she laughed without joy.

“They took worse. They stole a small child’s future and a mother’s happiness when they left, just like that, with only a letter. It wasn’t even an apology, can you imagine? Merely a letter telling us that the meal was paid for, and that they had to return to their families, to marry. We were not the sort of woman one marries, of course. I should have known that. They warned me. But I didn’t think…”

Fantine broke off. A moment later, she rubbed furiously at her eyes. “The letter,” she said. “I want to write to Cosette.”

“Write,” Valjean said. “I will help you.”

The sentences were simple, Fantine’s letters still clumsy, but with Valjean’s help, they had a passable note in less than half an hour.

“She won’t be able to read it, of course,” Fantine said with a small smile, “but the innkeepers will read it to her. And just think, in a year’s time, when I have her with me, I will teach her to read and write just as you’ve taught me. She will learn things. She will have warm, clean clothes. She will never know again what it is like to be without a family. And when I finally have her with me again, I will tell her that it was you who taught me to write to her, and you who helped me here.”

Embarrassed, Valjean had to look away. “That isn’t necessary,” he said roughly. “It’s such a small thing—and you cannot forget that it was I who got you into trouble in the first place.”

“I should have told you about Cosette,” Fantine said, “right at the start. But I was scared of you. Men hadn’t given me a reason to trust them.”

“No.” Valjean looked down. “I know what that is like. And I know what it’s like to be afraid. That people will look at you, and that they will know. That’s why I should have—”

“Enough of that.” Fantine gave him a tentative nudge with her shoulder. “It’s rare enough Javert lets you out of his sight. I want to read more.”

It was at that moment, his fingers already tracing another line, that Valjean became aware of the sound of hooves on soft grass. When he looked up, his hands instinctively clenching around the Bible as he fought the instinct to hide it, he was not entirely surprised to find his former horse coming to a stand in front of him, the gelding’s golden coat now dark and flecked with foam as he stretched his neck in tired satisfaction, exhaling as he chewed contentedly on the bit.

When Valjean raised his eyes, he found that Javert’s face was unreadable.

Guilt rose in Valjean, but he fought it down. It was a Sunday, the only day of the week when he had a few precious hours to himself. Javert had no right to deny him his freedom this afternoon.

Of course, there was nothing keeping Javert from laying claim to Valjean’s hours even on a Sunday. Who would stop him? Valjean knew that he wouldn’t put up a fight, not with what was at stake.

“What’s going on here?” Javert asked with little preamble.

Valjean smiled wryly. It was just as he had thought.

“Nothing that concerns you.” Fantine scrambled to her feet, one hand protectively clutching the letter to her chest.

Immediately, Javert’s eyes narrowed.

Valjean wearily rose as well. “It’s Sunday. We have the afternoon to use as we see fit.”

There was a small smile on Javert’s face. “And you’re doing what exactly all the way out here—reading the Bible?”

Wordlessly, Valjean held out the tome. Javert took hold of it and flicked it open. Then he scoffed and handed it back to Valjean before he dismounted, handing Doré’s reins to Valjean.

“Look after him,” he said. “And you—show me what you have there. It’s a letter; I saw it clearly.”

Fantine’s lips were pressed together, her chin lifted and her eyes sparking with indignation.

Valjean hurriedly interfered before things could escalate. “Show him the letter, Fantine. I was teaching her to write, sir. That is all.”

“Is it,” Javert said derisively. “I will be the judge of that.”

He held out his hand again, and a moment later, Fantine reluctantly handed over the letter.

Relieved, Valjean turned back to the horse, loosening the girth and running up the stirrups before he let Doré step down to the river where the gelding eagerly began to drink.

When Valjean turned back to watch Javert, he saw that Javert’s brow was furrowed as he stared at the letter. “It’s a letter to the innkeepers?”

“To my daughter,” Fantine said obstinately, “Cosette.”

Javert turned the letter around, but when he could find no incriminating evidence, he returned it to her.

“Will that be all then? Sir?” Fantine demanded.

The gelding still had his nose in the stream, drinking deeply.

“You worked him hard, sir,” Valjean said in the hope of distracting Javert from Fantine. “He’s wet with sweat. Shall I rub him down for you?”

“It’s Sunday.” Fantine sounded as if she was just barely holding back anger. “He has no right to your time!”

In response, Javert smiled again. “He’s offering, isn’t he? If that’s how he wants to spend his Sunday, it’s his choice. Just like teaching you to read the Bible.” Javert’s lips twisted again to show what he thought of that excuse.

Doré pulled up, snorting in deep satisfaction. Drops of water hit Valjean’s trousers as the gelding shook his head, his tack jingling.

“It’s not right, and you know it,” Fantine said. “Can you not leave him alone for an hour or two on a Sunday? And we’ve done nothing wrong. You have no right—”

“Oh, don’t act so upset,” Javert said. “A pretty woman with a child and no husband who sold herself into indenture—you lost the right to be outraged long ago. You’re only one step up from a woman of the town, and you know it.”

Stung, Fantine took a step back, although she was still glaring at Javert.

“And you know that you have no right to be upset—it’s not against any law that a woman like me shouldn’t learn how to write letters to her own child. And Valjean has a right to his Sunday, just as I do. Or is there some other reason you don’t like to see him here?” Fantine threw her head back as she gave Javert a challenging look, eyes still glaring and color high in her cheeks. “Surely a man like you has no reason to be jealous of a woman like me, Inspector?”

“That’s enough, Fantine,” Valjean said as he came hastily forward, releasing his hold on the gelding’s reins—but it was too late.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Javert said as he stared at Fantine, a derisive smile on his face. “I know that man. Much better than you do. You’ve only known him as the pious Mayor Madeleine; I’ve seen him sweating in the prison hulks. No, I’m not worried at all about what he might do with a pretty woman like you—not Valjean.”

Javert laughed as if the mere idea amused him, and Valjean felt a hot rush of shame as he remembered that first night he’d gone to Javert’s bed—quite willingly.

“But I _am_ concerned if he starts sending out letters,” Javert continued. “He’s escaped the hulks four times, after all. But he won’t escape again. Not with me here to make certain he doesn’t get any ideas.”

“You know I won’t,” Valjean said, moving in between Fantine and Javert. “You know why.”

Javert gave him a considering look. “I do,” he murmured, then looked from Valjean to Fantine and back. “Still. I am keeping an eye on you. Don’t think you can do anything without my notice. I’m watching you.”

Valjean swallowed down his shame and his helpless fury, still painfully aware of Fantine behind him—Fantine, who had annoyed Javert enough that it might not be Valjean serving Javert his dinner tonight…

Valjean boldly met Javert’s eyes. “Do you want me to return with you then? If you want me to, I will. You know I will.”

Javert exhaled, then raised the hand that held the riding crop. Valjean shivered as Javert gently tapped his chest with it, holding still as Javert slowly dragged it down to his stomach.

“So well-behaved now.” Javert’s smile widened. “Is it because of her? No… I’ve seen you act up with her around.”

Valjean held Javert’s gaze for a long moment. The tip of the crop was still resting against his stomach. Had Fantine not been here, maybe Javert would have let it trail lower, would have allowed it to press against the flap of Valjean’s trousers where even now something was twisting low in his stomach, a sharp spike of something that surely couldn’t be arousal.

Perhaps it was merely a resigned expectation—his body had come to know what to expect from encounters with Javert, after all.

“Don’t feel too safe out here,” Javert said softly when he finally lowered his arm. “I have my eyes on you, no matter where you go.”

Chastened, Valjean averted his eyes. Something had changed in the way they faced each other. Javert was no longer angry—if he had indeed been angry. Even his suspicion had melted away, giving way to something Valjean knew very well. Had they been alone, he did not doubt that Javert might have pushed him against the tree now. Or perhaps the crop would have lingered, pressing in between his legs until his body began to respond the way it always seemed to in the end.

“Will you require my presence this evening then, sir?” Valjean said carefully. Javert’s boots would certainly be in need of a polish after the ride, his coat and trousers in need of a brush.

And there would be other services Javert would require, Valjean did not doubt that. Not with Javert standing so close that he could smell the scent of his soap and hear the way his breath came just a little too fast.

“I will,” Javert said eventually. “You’ll serve my dinner, and I’ll make certain you don’t cause any trouble this evening.”

The crop came up again to give him another tap on the chest to underline Javert’s words. Valjean found himself nodding, glad to have an excuse to turn away before either Javert or Fantine could see the heat that had risen to his face. He tightened Doré’s girth without speaking and held the stirrup for Javert, and when Javert at last turned the gelding away from them, he hastily knelt down by the side of the river to wash the gelding’s sweat from his hands, using the chance to pour cold water over his heated face.

It could have gone worse. It wouldn’t be Fantine in Javert’s apartment tonight. That was a victory of a sort.

All the same, his own reaction to Javert troubled him. Perhaps it was no wonder that Javert had so easily believed that Valjean had come to his bed willingly—eagerly, even. And what excuse did Valjean have when even in the prison hulks, among men who suffered just as he did, his blood had never stirred in such a way?


	30. Chapter 30

Javert was in a good mood. He was seated in his chair by the stove, legs stretched out in front of him, a glass of wine by his side and an open book in his lap which he had not even pretended to glance at for long minutes. It was warm by the fire while outside, rain had begun to fall once more not long after the sun had set.

It was gratifying to listen to the sound of the rain coming down onto the roof above them while they were safe and warm inside. Still, this shared comfort was not the source of Javert’s good mood.

Valjean had settled down on the floor near the stove as well, and there he had patiently brushed the gelding’s golden hair together with dried dirt and dust from Javert’s coat and his trousers, no doubt aware of the weight of Javert’s gaze on him.

At first, Javert had indeed been reading, although his eyes had returned to the kneeling figure of Valjean again and again, lingering longer each time. When Valjean dared to look up every now and then, Javert had given him a small smile as he watched him at work.

Often, such attention seemed to unsettle Valjean. But for once, there was no sense of unease Javert could make out, even though Valjean’s Sunday had come to an end and would be followed by another week where his days and his nights were fully at Javert’s disposal. Still, it could not be so bad to end the day on Javert’s floor, with Javert’s dusty coat spread across his lap. The work was easy, after all—and surely there was satisfaction to be had from such honest work and the progress he was making.

The next time Valjean looked up and found Javert openly watching, he held his gaze for a moment. Javert’s smile widened a little, but he did not speak. Valjean, in turn, appeared neither angry nor showing the slightest hint of his customary moodiness. Instead, he seemed pensive as he gazed at Javert before he returned to his work again.

Javert sipped his wine, savoring the richness of fruit on his tongue. With the warmth of the fire and the pleasing view before him, it was easy to start to wonder whether it was right to pursue a career in Paris. For a man of his background, what he had here was nothing to scoff at. He had a position of authority, good food and wine, a fine horse, an apartment that felt spacious to one who had come from the cramped barracks of Toulon—and he had Jean Valjean at his beck and call.

Truly, that amenity would be hardest to leave behind.

Javert allowed his eyes to linger on the tempting curve of the bent neck and broad shoulders, the powerful body clothed only by a soft, worn shirt of white linen. Valjean had spread a rag over his lap before he had begun to clean and polish the leather of Javert’s boots. When he looked up again, Javert moistened his lips, contemplating the face before him: the wide mouth was relaxed this evening, the brows drawn together a little as Valjean watched him without speaking, offering a glimpse of his chest where his shirt opened.

It was a very different vision to the man he had been, even though Madeleine as well had seemed to prefer the clothes of a workingman.

“Well?” Javert said long minutes later when Valjean continued to gaze at him thoughtfully, his work forgotten in his lap. “Speak up. You look as if you have something to say.”

Valjean inclined his head. “I was merely thinking that you and I… we are not so different.”

“I recall telling you so, several years ago. Although I also recall you were in chains at the time.” The memory made Javert’s lips twitch in amusement.

“But you also admitted that you were wrong about me then. Never mind,” Valjean said when Javert raised a brow at him. “That is not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The rain was continuing to drum against the windows, the fire in the stove giving off a pleasant warmth. Javert was feeling too contended to let Valjean spoil his mood.

“For you to want me here, like this.... Surely in some way it means that you know that I’m no danger to you. There are no chains on me here.”

“You’d be a greater fool than even I think possible to want to escape—now, when you know very well that what you have here is an easy life compared to how they’d work you back in the hulks. And then, you are already a recidivist. For you to try and flee now, it might not go so well for you when they catch you again...”

Valjean looked as if he wasn’t satisfied with that answer. That was the old stubbornness: he could never let something rest. “You told me yourself: you wouldn’t want an animal in your bed. That I do understand. But then why treat me like one?”

“You are in a very chatty mood today.” Javert laughed softly and shook his head as he contemplated Valjean.

“Do you want me to be silent, sir?” Valjean asked. There was none of the usual flare of his temper in it; it seemed that he was genuinely curious.

For whatever reason, Javert could not find it in himself to say yes, though that was surely what it should be like to see Valjean finally beaten into obedience: he’d be quiet and obedient, with no more sullen glances.

But it was early yet and Javert was comfortable in his seat by the fire, and the book on his lap could not hold his attention as well as the pleasing sight of Valjean on his knees, bent over his work.

“No,” Javert allowed. “As long as this isn’t another ploy to annoy me.”

“I rarely intend to annoy you,” Valjean said wryly. “Although I will admit it keeps happening. Still... Thank you.”“

“What for?” Javert was beginning to feel curious about the cause of this mood.

Valjean’s brows drew together again as though he was surprised as he glanced at Javert. “For this,” he said, nodding vaguely at the room. “It’s a welcome reminder that I am human, just like you—no more, no less.”

Javert felt a small smile tug on his lips, but he did not deny the truth of what Valjean said. For all that Valjean’s moods were as frustrating to wrestle with as the moods of an ill-trained stallion, much of what made Valjean’s surrender so pleasant was the strength of Valjean’s will, the sharp mind, human willfulness paired with animal strength.

After a moment, Valjean took up the rag once more, rubbing grease into the leather until it gleamed. “There is a lesson to be learned from this, perhaps,” he murmured, head bent. “After I left Digne... I could have lived like this. A simple, quiet life. A small farm with a field to work by myself, or perhaps... Perhaps there might have been a monastery somewhere. A place of silence where I would have hurt no one—although to enter such a place under a false name is surely a graver sin than any I have committed thus far.”

Javert couldn’t hold back a small sound of amusement. “Is that still what you think? It is what you want to believe of yourself, perhaps—but in truth, you’re just as ambitious as I am. You went from convict to magistrate. No, we are not so different at all—save that from youngest childhood on, I’ve learned that there is only a very narrow road for me to walk if I don’t want to end up with the likes of you.”

“No,” Valjean said, quiet but firm. “That’s where you are wrong. That’s where we are different. I have never been ambitious. I’ve never wanted...” He hesitated, then shrugged and gestured to the window and the town that laid beyond. “I never wanted any of that. I wanted an honest, quiet life; I wanted hard work and a chance to make things right. I never wanted to be the mayor of this town; I never dreamed of owning a factory.”

“And yet that is just what you did.”

“I thought it would be...” Valjean fell silent, his eyes returning to Javert to watch him, a little warily, and a little resigned, as though he already knew that nothing he said would convince Javert of what tale he was going to spin. “Atonement,” he finally said with a sigh. “A chance to do good. To perhaps make up for the evil I’ve done. But it’s not that easy. It is a simple thing, to hire a schoolteacher, to pay for a hospital bed. But then there was Fantine, and I....”

“You fired her. You, a convict, a recidivist, fired her for being a dishonest woman.” Javert felt another smile tug on his lips. In truth, it was hard to understand why Valjean was still so broken up about that—why would an elector have a woman like her work in his factory? No good things came from mingling with women like that; who knew what might have become of the other women employed alongside her, or how she might have tempted the men employed there!

Valjean bowed his head. “I did,” he admitted quietly. “And I am paying for it now.”

“You are paying for your crimes, Jean Valjean, which include the theft of a forty sous coin.” Javert was beginning to feel impatient. Hadn’t he heard all of this before? “Who cares what went on with that woman? Although I have to admit I am surprised. For so many weeks she looked as if she wanted to scratch your eyes out, yet look at her now! There she was, that feisty thing, glaring at me—trying to protect you. You have a knack for befriending people, don’t you? First Robert, now Fantine. But Robert changed his tune, now that there is a new mayor, and Fantine... Well, I need not tell you what comes from the company of women like her.”

Stung, Valjean straightened at last. “I certainly don’t intend—you need not fear that I would, that I could—”

Javert laughed again. “No,” he said, quietly pleased. “You could not, could you? I know your tastes well, and they do not run to pretty women at all.”

There was a sudden heat coloring Valjean’s cheeks, and he averted his eyes. Still, he didn’t protest, and that was pleasing enough.

Perhaps there had been enough truth between them for the evening.

“Come here,” Javert said. “Leave that be.”

Again Valjean looked up with a familiar wariness, then put the boots and the stained rag aside before he rose to his feet and approached Javert. When Javert pointed at the floor, he sank to his knees without a word, his brow still creased. 

Javert reached out and grasped Valjean’s chin, turning it so that the light of the lamp fully illuminated his features. Valjean’s eyes were dark, although the set of his mouth and the way his brows had drawn together again betrayed the caution that always seemed to be a part of him, despite the fact that he let Javert handle him as he pleased.

Slowly, Javert drew his thumb along Valjean’s bottom lip, think of the man he’d been, the mayor sitting safe behind his desk as he sought to lecture Javert about compassion, about goodness, about wickedness.

Even now, the thought of what he’d been brought a smile to Javert’s lips.

“No, you’re not an animal at all. There’s cunning in you. Even an awareness of your crimes. It’s rare for a criminal, but after all it’s not unheard of. It would be refreshing, at least, to not hear excuses day after day. They all have excuses.” Javert’s finger traced down from Valjean’s creased brow to the worried mouth. “Still. There’s that vile temper of yours. And as much as I’d like to believe you, we both know it’s going to flare up again. But you can be good if you want to be. Eventually you’ll tire of that struggle.”

Javert returned to touch Valjean’s mouth, brushing against lips that were warm and inviting. He slipped a finger into his mouth, and Valjean allowed that too without protest, although heat immediately returned to his cheeks.

It had been a long time since Javert had felt the heat of a mouth wrapped around his cock. Back then, it had been a luxury—and a man like Javert, only newly a guard, could not afford luxuries. Even less could he afford to mingle with the sort of people drawn to places where men could buy such favors. In truth, he had not missed it much in the years since; his own hand had been adequate when the mood struck him.

But there was a difference between paying a woman of the town known to all the guards—and probably all the thieves of Toulon as well—and making use of a privilege that was his by right as the Chief of Police of this town. One was a luxury, the other a benefit of his position.

Hesitantly, Valjean’s tongue touched the pad of his finger, hot and velvet-soft despite the man’s tendency to use it for sharp words. A moment later, Valjean’s mouth tightened around his finger, and Javert found that his trousers grew tight at the same time, his cock hardening at the sight and the sensation of what pleasures the man’s unruly mouth could bestow, if it so chose.

Once more he wondered whether he had been wrong to leave Valjean a choice.

But then, it had not been unpleasant at all to see Valjean struggle with the unavoidable truth of his coming surrender. Whether Valjean wanted to admit it to himself or not, he would give in. That proud neck would bend under Javert’s yoke—and the soft mouth that had spoken harsh words and so many lies would finally be put to a better use.

It would be worth the wait when it happened, although even Javert had to admit at this point that the wait had become a painful one.

To distract himself from that sobering truth, he slipped a hand into his pocket where he still kept the small tin of sugared treats he had acquired in Paris. He pulled his finger free from Valjean’s mouth, then took hold of one of the sugared violets. When he offered it to Valjean, he seemed to struggle for a moment at the sight before he finally closed his eyes and leaned forward, taking it from Javert’s hand with a small exhalation of warm air.

“Take off your shirt.”

There was the customary heartbeat of hesitation before Valjean’s hands went to his shirt and he calmly drew it off, taking the time to fold it before he placed it on the floor. This time, he raised his eyes again to gaze at Javert, but for all his bravado, there was something sensitive in the lines around his mouth.

How strange, truly, that a man like Jean Valjean should mind this so much. But then, he never seemed to mind much once they ended up in Javert’s bed...

The thought made Javert smile even as his trousers grew even tighter at the splendor of the body before him.

Valjean had been a sight in the prison hulks, chained and defiant, all bulging muscle and skin gleaming with sweat. Now, tamed and sitting calmly at Javert’s feet, he had lost nothing of his allure. That same potent masculinity was still making Javert’s blood run hot with the thrill of knowing it at his mercy. All that strength, subdued by him. The brutal power of Valjean’s body was at his command—his to touch, to handle however he liked, and Valjean would willingly give himself up to it.

Javert moistened his lips, then reached out, running a hand slowly down Valjean’s chest. Beneath his touch he could feel Valjean’s heartbeat quicken, muscles flexing beneath the warm skin. He traced the hard plane of Valjean’s pectorals, ran his hand down to feel the muscles of his stomach flex involuntarily at his touch, then traced a path back up to where Valjean’s nipples had already tightened in anticipation.

Javert raised his hand and licked at a fingertip, then reached back out. Valjean stiffened, his eyes falling shut as Javert’s finger grazed his nipple, painting wetness all over it as he circled it. A remnant of the old stubbornness made Valjean’s teeth dig into his bottom lip to deny Javert the sound that so clearly wanted to escape, but Valjean couldn’t hide the way his back was arching, his breath coming faster as Javert’s finger continued to tease the small nub.

“Open your trousers,” Javert demanded hoarsely.

Valjean shivered but obeyed, his eyes remaining closed as his fingers hastily undid the buttons of his trouser flap.

Javert exhaled in gratification to find Valjean hard as well, his cock pushing up demandingly from beneath the shirt tails that still covered him. Javert licked his lips again, then reached down to draw the shirt aside. Valjean shuddered but did not protest, and when Javert trailed his fingertips up the inside of Valjean’s thigh, his cock jerked, begging for a touch the way Valjean was still too stubborn too.

But then, there was no reason to make Valjean beg—not when soon enough, his pride would melt away all on its own and he’d meet Javert eagerly, although he’d never speak the words aloud. Not yet, at least.

“Come on,” Javert murmured, nodding towards the bed when Valjean opened his eyes.

Valjean swallowed heavily, then inclined his head before he stumbled to his feet, the way his body had flushed with desire more than making up for the lack of grace.

For all that he had been so pensive earlier, Valjean was eager enough once they were in bed. He positioned himself on his hands and knees without being asked while Javert poured some of the lamp oil into his palm and then idly massaged his aching shaft while he contemplated the vision Valjean made.

“Not like that,” he said at last, once he’d looked his fill of that magnificent backside. “Lie down. On your side.”

The earlier teasing had given him an appetite for feeling that imposing body surrender to his embrace. When Valjean was at last positioned to his like, Javert held himself with one hand, holding up Valjean’s thigh with the other as he pushed against his hole. Valjean groaned as his body swallowed him eagerly, and once he was fully inside, Javert released his leg, watching as Valjean arched against him, his fingers already helplessly clenching around the sheets as Javert sank in deeper.

“That’s how I like you,” Javert murmured against damp skin, the muscles of Valjean’s back shifting beneath his touch as Valjean groaned again.

Javert wrapped his arm around him, pressing himself close, his mouth trailing a wet path up Valjean’s neck.

This was what he’d wanted. There was nothing more intoxicating than the sensation of all that strength in his arms, powerful muscles trembling as Javert mastered him with stroke after stroke.

Javert tried to draw it out for as long as he could, forcing himself to go slowly—and there was a deep satisfaction in that too. Every thrust dragged a groan from Valjean’s throat. He seemed to have forgotten all about his sullenness, his body hot and flushed with heat in Javert’s arms, trembling every time Javert pushed in.

There were words on Javert’s tongue—he wanted to tell Valjean how much he loved it how Valjean loved his cock, and perhaps that would have forced a protesting moan from Valjean—but Javert, too, was overwhelmed. His eyes closed as his thrusts inevitably began to speed up, Valjean’s sweat filling his mouth as he sucked on his throat, there where his pulse was racing against Javert’s tongue.

Even now, Valjean’s body took him eagerly, his hole tightening at each punishing thrust as if to draw him in even deeper. When Javert reached down to feel Valjean’s need for himself, he was vindicated to encounter Valjean’s hand wrapped tightly around his own cock, wringing pleasure from himself as he gave himself up to Javert’s mastery.

Valjean’s release spilled over both of their hands only moments before Javert found his release, his thrusts losing all rhythm as his hips jerked against Valjean, teeth digging into the skin of Valjean’s throat.

For long moments, all Javert could hear was the racing of his own heart, his pulse as loud as thunder in his ears. At last, when he could breathe again, he found himself still pressed against Valjean, Valjean’s own chest still rising and falling rapidly.

Contentedly, Javert sighed against Valjean’s nape, his lips searching out the spot where his teeth had grazed the skin earlier. He tasted the bruise with his tongue, the warm salt of Valjean’s skin filling his mouth. Valjean shuddered tiredly in his arms but didn’t stir further.

Rain was still falling heavily outside. The wind had picked up as well. Javert could hear it howling around the chimney, the shutters rattling while rain continued to drum against the roof above.

The room was warm, but even so the night promised to be cold. He would have to remember to add more wood to the fire for the night, he thought, even as his limbs began to grow heavy and his eyes fell shut.


	31. Chapter 31

Warmth surrounded Valjean. The dream from which he had woken must have been pleasant, even though he did not remember much of it now. Still, parts of it lingered, holding him in a warm embrace. The sensation was so pleasant that for long moments, he allowed himself to drift, enjoying the heat against his skin, the softness of the ground on which he was resting, his body relaxed and comfortable.

Long minutes passed before he began to realize that the heat against his nape was warm breath, and that the comforting sensation was in truth the weight of an arm slung around his chest, a body resting against his.

Disoriented, Valjean opened his eyes. He found himself not on the floor, where he had awoken these past months, but resting on a bed. The room was familiar; it was merely the soft mattress beneath him that was disconcerting, for the earliest rays of the morning sun were already lifting the gloom from Javert’s bedroom.

It was morning, and he was resting in Javert’s bed.

How had he come to be here? Valjean racked his mind, but he couldn’t remember having come to such a momentous decision during the past evening. He remembered the sensation of Javert’s skin against his, the shame and the pleasure of surrendering to Javert. He remembered the exhaustion afterward as they had rested together in a tangle of limbs, his heart racing and his body aching, yet filled with a deep, weary satisfaction.

And then? He seemed to simply have fallen asleep. Could it truly be that easy?

Carefully, Valjean turned, Javert’s arm still wrapped around him.

It was not yet too late. Javert was still asleep.

If Javert had fallen asleep at the same time as Valjean had, it was entirely possible he had not realized yet what had come to pass. If Valjean could manage to extricate himself from Javert’s arms, there was still a way out. He could slip out of the bed and curl up in his accustomed place at the foot of Javert’s bed. And when Javert woke, he would never know that Valjean had not spent the night on the floor like any other night before.

Warily, Valjean studied Javert’s face. Was he perhaps only pretending to be asleep, waiting for Valjean to try and slip away? Or perhaps he was not that cruel; perhaps he was merely waiting to see what Valjean would do.

Javert’s eyes were closed, the lines of his face relaxed. His mouth was slightly open, his eyelashes resting against his skin, his brow smooth. He was naked beneath the blanket that covered them, as was Valjean—but for once, there appeared to be nothing threatening in his nudity.

Asleep, they truly were alike. Valjean felt that certainty even more strongly now than during the preceding evening. Whatever Javert might want to pretend, whatever roles he liked them to act out, in the end, before God—and here in this quiet chamber, removed from the world—they were merely two men. Javert’s soul was no more nor less precious than his own.

He could not hate Javert. He did not think that Javert even truly hated him. With sleep softening his features, it seemed impossible that Javert should not be able to see what Valjean had learned.

Outside, a bird began to sing. The light was slowly growing brighter. Valjean watched as the rectangle of light slowly began its journey across the floor. Not long now before it would reach his accustomed spot on the floor. Javert might wake at any moment.

If he wanted to leave, it had to be now if he wanted to have any chance of pretending that this night had never happened.

Instead, he found himself still gazing at Javert, torn between the instinctual need to flee—to rebel in the only way open to him to protect what small part of himself was still his own—and the tempting warmth of Javert’s embrace.

Was it truly so impossible that Javert might not open his eyes and see him—truly see him for who he was? A man worse than many, it was true, but still a man, and one who had tried hard to do good. Surely for Javert to want him here, in his bed, resting against him at night, it was impossible that Javert should see him as nothing more than an object to use, a wild beast to put to work.

No, as harsh as Javert could be, asleep there was a softness on his face that was undeniable. Surely if Javert were to open his eyes now, he would see what Valjean saw—that they were two men, two souls in need of compassion, and that was all they were.

The sunlight had continued to wander across the room while he had been lost in contemplation of Javert’s face. It had reached Javert’s pillow now, Valjean saw with sudden shock. Within minutes, it would shine on Javert, who was certain to wake. If Valjean wanted to escape, he had mere minutes to act.

Instead, Valjean kept gazing at Javert, entranced by the way the sunlight only added to the unsettling vision of Javert at rest. All harshness and cruelty was gone from his face, the golden light giving him an aura of serenity.

The sunlight had reached his cheek, and a sigh escaped Javert. Valjean could feel the rhythm of his breathing change—and then, a smile tugged at Javert’s lips, his mouth curving. There was something strangely lovely about the sight, for there was no mockery in it for once.

Could there not be peace between them?

Valjean gazed at Javert’s face, watching as the minutes ticked away.

Even if it was impossible, there would still be relief in giving himself up. Javert had been right in that, at least—the constant struggle against Javert’s harsh rules was tiring. If Valjean gave that up as well, if he surrendered that final part of himself, perhaps there would be peace. Javert would at last have all that he had demanded, and maybe then, the year until Fantine was free would pass quickly and quietly.

What use had a man like Valjean for pride, anyway? It was pride that had brought him here, after all—pride in his own goodness that had made him fire Fantine.

Javert made another sound. The sun was now shining directly onto his face.

Valjean closed his eyes, his decision made for him. He sank back down, his head resting on Javert’s pillow as he waited for what was to come.

He did not have to wait for long.

Javert shifted against him, then stretched, his arm rising, then settling back into place around Valjean’s waist, tightening possessively.

“Well, what’s that?” Javert said, his voice still rough with sleep. “A very good morning to you. I have to admit, that’s not a sight I expected to see this morning.”

Warily, Valjean opened his eyes and found himself face to face with Javert, so close that it would take no effort at all to lean in and kiss him.

Javert’s face was still relaxed, a smile playing on his lips—but this smile, Valjean knew, was not the product of innocent dreams.

“So you decided you would rather spend the night in my bed? No wonder—it’s cold. The fire went out during the night.” Javert’s brow creased, then he laughed softly. “Never mind. I did not feel the cold. You’ve kept me warm tonight.”

Beneath the heavy woolen blanket, his hand slid familiarly along Valjean’s flank, then curved around his buttocks. Valjean allowed all of this, waiting for what he knew was to come.

“You do remember what I told you though, don’t you?” Javert said. “How I expect to be woken, if you expect to continue to share my bed?”

Valjean nodded wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak.

“Well? Then why was I woken by the sun instead?”

There was no rancor in Javert’s voice. Valjean did not doubt even for a moment that Javert would let him escape his bed unscathed, now that Valjean had at last given in, but at least there was no gloating in Javert, no additional cruelty. He still seemed utterly at ease with the situation, content to linger here in bed with Valjean resting against him.

Valjean considered for a moment, but what use was there in lying? Javert would find out about his lack of skills soon enough. “I don’t know how,” he said.

Javert laughed, amused. “That’s not true. Nineteen years in Toulon, Valjean. You know how it works.”

Valjean considered again, then inclined his head in assent. “I’ve never done it,” he admitted. “Sir.”

Javert’s hand came up to cradle his head almost tenderly, his thumb smoothing in approval along the curve of his skull when Valjean did not flinch at the touch.

“Then you’ll learn. If you can teach that tongue to speak like a magistrate, you can teach it more pleasant things.”

It wasn’t a question, and so Valjean nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

Javert’s hand slid down to his shoulder, then gave him a gentle shove. “Go on. Take your time. Mind that you be careful with your teeth—I can be patient, but I’m no fool, Valjean. I expect you to do your best.”

Valjean felt heat rush to his face, but he sat up regardless, the blanket falling away from his body. The air was cold—but even so he didn’t get up to start another fire. It was too late to delay at this point.

Javert watched him intently. He pushed the blanket aside, and Valjean had to swallow when he found himself faced with Javert’s naked body, now fully illuminated by the sunlight so that every small detail was visible, from the lean muscles of his stomach to the dark hair between his thighs.

At the center of the patch of wiry hair, Javert’s cock had begun to stir. He was half hard already. Valjean moved to hesitantly crouch by his feet and Javert spread his legs, his cock hardening further.

“Take it in your mouth.”

Valjean leaned over Javert, hesitating for another moment. Then he bent forward, parting his lips, and tentatively drew the tip of Javert’s cock into his mouth.

Javert moaned in satisfaction. His hand came up to curve around Valjean’s head again, and Valjean drew Javert in deeper before he could change his mind.

It wasn’t as distasteful as Valjean had thought it would be. Javert was warm—that was the first thing he noted, the heat of him against his tongue. He was large enough that Valjean had to open his mouth wide—that was different to the finger or two Javert would slide into his mouth sometimes. His skin tasted faintly of salt, and Valjean’s nose was filled with the scent of Javert’s arousal.

Tentatively, he pressed his tongue to the head of Javert’s cock, and Javert made an appreciative sound in return.

“Good,” Javert said. He sounded a little breathless, and when Valjean raised his eyes, he could see that Javert’s eyes were closed, his mouth parted.

Javert was enjoying himself.

Valjean didn’t feel as bitter as he had assumed he would—Javert had not been cruel about it at all, and surely, if it had to happen, it was best to happen like this. On his own terms, by his own choice, with Javert, for once, silenced by pleasure.

That made it easier—to pretend that it was merely a thing he did because it gave Javert pleasure, and not because it also gave Javert pleasure to see him degraded.

Again Valjean glanced up. Javert had sunk back into his pillows, his chest gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, his mouth relaxed. One of his hands had come to rest on his chest, lightly stroking himself. The sight was strangely reassuring. Javert was enjoying himself, and that was all it was.

Javert had hardened further in his mouth, and Valjean slowly tried to take him deeper. It seemed impossible—Javert was too large, and he had to come up for breath after a moment, allowing Javert to slip from his mouth. The crown of Javert’s cock was gleaming, slick with his saliva, and when Valjean leaned in and slowly ran his tongue around it, Javert moaned again. Valjean could see the muscles of Javert’s stomach flex, his breath coming quickly now, his cock pushing up demandingly against Valjean’s lips.

“You’re enjoying this?” Valjean asked, even more unsettled by the roughness of his own voice.

Javert looked at him from heavy-lidded eyes, a hoarse laugh escaping him—although even now, there was little of the gloating satisfaction in it that Valjean had feared.

“Yes, Valjean,” he said, so breathless that Valjean didn’t even mind the way Javert rolled his eyes at him. “I’m enjoying myself.”

Flushing for no reason, Valjean ducked his head. He licked his lips, then let Javert’s cock slide into his mouth once more. The sensation of him filling his mouth was still strange, although the weight of Javert on his tongue was now familiar. The taste of his arousal was more pronounced this time, a deep, earthy taste. After taking a deep breath, Valjean forced himself to take Javert deeper into his mouth.

There was a limit to how far he could go—once, too daring, he took Javert too deep, and the unexpected brush of Javert’s cock against the back of his throat made him choke and hastily pull back, coughing while Javert’s fingers trailed through his shorn hair. When he next bent to his task once more, he was more careful. Javert, in turn, truly seemed satisfied to let him proceed at his own pace. His hand remained on Valjean’s head, but it made no motion to force him down, and when Valjean carefully trailed his tongue around the head of Javert’s cock, drawing him in just enough to suck on the tip without danger of choking, Javert made another breathless, encouraging sound.

His hand tightened around Valjean’s head, the muscles of his thighs tensing as his hips came up. It was the only warning Valjean received before Javert groaned and spilled himself in Valjean’s mouth.

Shocked, Valjean held still for that, too. Bitter salt pooled in his mouth as Javert’s pleasure came in spurt after spurt, his cock feeling strangely alive as it throbbed against Valjean’s tongue. Javert was panting now, his hand tracing Valjean’s cheek, and when Valjean looked up, his mouth still stretched around Javert, he found that Javert was watching him again, his eyes dark and satisfied.

“Don’t swallow,” Javert said softly when Valjean began to draw back. “Keep it in your mouth.”

Heat rushed to Valjean’s face as he realized what Javert wanted, but even so he obeyed, Javert’s softening cock slipping from his mouth as Valjean straightened. Javert’s release was warm in his mouth, his tongue coated with the bitter earthiness of it, and even after all Javert had already taken from him, that sensation was so shocking that Valjean dared not breathe.

After a moment, Javert sat up against the pillows with a sigh of satisfaction and reached out to touch Valjean’s lips with his finger. “Good. That was very good.”

He slipped a finger into Valjean’s mouth, then added a second. Lightly, he pressed down onto Valjean’s tongue, and Valjean allowed his mouth to open, letting Javert look his fill while Valjean’s heart continued to race.

“Good,” Javert said softly. He trailed his fingertip through the pool of come on Valjean’s tongue, then withdrew, wiping his finger against Valjean’s lips. “Now swallow.”

Valjean’s heart was racing in his chest. Something twisted in his stomach again—he wanted to believe that it was shame, but at the same time, his body had hardened as well during what he’d done for Javert, and even now his arousal was aching for attention.

When he swallowed, Javert drew in a deep breath, reaching out again to touch his lips. Valjean shivered, his cock throbbing with need when Javert slid his finger into his mouth before withdrawing it again.

“There. Was that really worth all the months of stubbornness?” Still smiling, Javert pressed his lips to Valjean’s.

A shocked moan escaped Valjean when Javert’s tongue slid into his mouth—and then, with the certainty of a man who’d never doubted what he would find, Javert’s hand slid between Valjean’s thighs. Lightly, Javert grasped Valjean’s arousal, stroking him until Valjean found a sudden, shocking release that left him trembling and overwhelmed. And even now, his mouth remembered the weight of Javert on his tongue, his mind tormenting him with a memory of the way Javert had looked, all harshness smoothed away by pleasure.


	32. Chapter 32

The events of the morning had left Javert in a particularly good mood which his men were too well-trained to comment on. As he sat at his desk, looking through another file of notes soon to be sent to the Prefecture, it was difficult to get the image of Valjean out of his mind. 

Perhaps now that Valjean had surrendered as he had always known he would, things would be easier.

Or perhaps one good morning meant nothing; maybe Valjean had already grown skittish once more and this evening, Javert would have to deal with another infraction. He still remembered how Valjean had flushed when he’d tapped his chest with the riding crop… For a moment, Javert ignored his notes to indulge in a fantasy of pushing Valjean over the very desk he was right now doing his morning’s work on, the round, powerfully-muscled arse turning red with stripe after stripe as Javert taught him manners.

The image was appealing—but even so Javert’s thoughts kept returning to the sensation of Valjean’s body warm against his, that rebellious mouth finally silenced—and surprisingly sweet. Who could have known that Valjean would be suited so well to such a task? Back in Toulon, he’d never have guessed that one day he’d have Jean Valjean in his bed—obedient, willing, all fight gone from him at last.

Abruptly, Javert stood. The thoughts of Valjean’s mouth obediently at work between his legs had not failed to have an effect; gritting his teeth against the first stirrings of arousal, he fetched his coat and buttoned it tightly before forcing himself to walk the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer for an hour.

In the marketplace, he saw M. Robert in conversation with Mayor Regnier. Javert smiled to himself as he passed them. Indeed, Robert had changed his tune now—which was for the best. Javert did not doubt that the new mayor would be very much irritated had Javert been forced to investigate a man as well-beloved by the town as Robert.

Of course, Madeleine had been just as beloved—but where M. Robert was a gentleman, Valjean had never ceased to be a convict from the hulks. Javert had smelled it on him, right from the start, whereas with Robert, all of Javert’s instincts bade him to be respectful.

In the inn, two travelers had arrived whose passports he checked. One was a student on his way to his family in Arras, the other a merchant traveling to Paris. After this was done, Javert contemplated for a moment whether there was a reason to search out the town’s servants—but as appealing as the thought of Valjean wet with sweat was, he had already wasted too much time on recollections of his mouth.

There was work to be done—and unlike Valjean, Javert had never shirked honest work.

It was harder than on most days to keep his mind busy, but once Javert had decided on a course of action, he rarely deviated from it. It was not until the light began to fade outside the window that he looked up from his work again. Gilbert had just entered the station-house, his boots muddy from having to accompany the indentured servants back to the town.

Javert gave him a sharp look, but decided to keep his comment to himself. There was only so far men like Gilbert could go. It would be different in Paris, at least if he had any say in it—and he would, in time.

Meanwhile, Gilbert was reliable, which was more than what could be said for many of the men he had to rely on.

“Still hard at work, sir?” Gilbert said, having obviously hoped that Javert had retired to his apartment already, so that he could return to his own family.

“Anything of note to report?” Javert asked instead of answering. When Gilbert shook his head, Javert pushed the files for the Prefecture he’d been working on forward.

“Very well. Take these and add them to the mail to go out with the next post coach, then send Jean Valjean over. That will be all for today.”

He had guessed correctly by the way Gilbert eagerly collected the mail before fleeing the station-house—but then, Javert could not fault him. Not when Javert himself had been waiting for this moment all day—but it didn’t matter now that it was evening, and Valjean’s time was his by right.

Would Valjean stay in his bed tonight? Even now, he couldn’t say. He wouldn’t be surprised at all to see Valjean suddenly scared of his own courage, or growing sullen and rebellious despite having seen how much easier it was to give in, and stubbornly return to his place on the floor.

Still, the nights were growing colder, and he’d rather liked waking up with Valjean in his arms. Valjean had liked it to, whether he’d admit it or not. As frustrating as Valjean could be, he responded well to a firm hand. Once winter truly arrived, they should be past the last remnants of Valjean’s stubbornness.

It would be good to enjoy the winter here in Montreuil with an apartment of his own, plenty of food, the respect of the town, and enough money for firewood to keep his stove going all winter. To have arrived in such a position was worth all past winters of coldness and little food. In Toulon at least, winters had meant solid walls around him, a roof above his head and meat on the table, although even then he had always been aware that outside of the hulks, a guard like him didn’t amount to much.

A part of Valjean had known it too; the prisoners had all despised them, of course, but at the time it hadn’t meant much to him.

How all of that had changed now...

***

“It’s getting cold,” Javert said.

Valjean looked up from his position on the floor.

“Heat the water first before you pour it into the wash basin.”

He should enjoy what he had here while it lasted. While Javert did not doubt that enough hard work would eventually lead to a good position in Paris, he could see that the first few years would be difficult. Gisquet had certainly no great interest in seeing him rise—not unless Javert was useful for his own advancement.

Javert intended to be.

He watched as Valjean heated water, then carried it into his bedroom to pour it into the wash basin there. He did not have to be told what Javert wanted from him; when Javert entered, Valjean was already waiting, eyes on Javert, the lines around his mouth faintly worried.

The sight made Javert smile even as he raised his arms. “Undress me. Then wash me.”

Valjean was obedient, which in itself was still a pleasant experience after all these days. When he dipped a cloth into the water and raised it to Javert’s chest, the heat was just as pleasant.

Javert closed his eyes in satisfaction, a deep sigh escaping him. He’d earned this. He’d earned all of this.

Valjean’s touch was careful, almost gentle. Attentively, he ran the washcloth all over Javert’s chest, Javert’s nipples tightening at the warm friction. When Valjean dipped the cloth into the hot water again, Javert’s eyes opened. He watched as Valjean slowly went to his knees.

Valjean swallowed. Javert had begun to harden, and the sight of Valjean on his knees before him, wearing but his trousers and the thin cotton shirt, was enough to make his cock stir further.

If he told Valjean to take him into his mouth again, Valjean might even do it without putting up a fight...

Valjean raised the washcloth, the muscles of Javert’s stomach contracting at the pleasing heat that slid up his thigh. Slowly, carefully, Valjean moved up and down his legs. By the time he was done, Javert had fully hardened, his balls tight as Valjean lifted them and carefully ran the cloth over them as well. Then Valjean dipped it into the water once more, and Javert gasped when Valjean wrapped the hot, damp rag around his cock. Instinctively, he reached out to grasp Valjean’s shoulder to hold himself up, resisting the urge to thrust up into the warm grasp.

“Get the oil,” he said instead, his voice rough.

The lines around Valjean’s mouth deepened, but he obeyed that order, too. At Javert’s nod, he poured a small amount of the oil into his palm, then wrapped his hand around Javert, smoothing it over him. Javert’s eyes closed again, the heat and the tightness of Valjean’s grip so good that he allowed himself to linger on it for long moments.

“That’s enough,” he said at last. “Strip. And get on the bed.”

Valjean’s eyes rose to look at him. There was still something suffering in the lines around his mouth—but his eyes had gone dark, and from the state of his trousers, Javert could see that Valjean had not found it distasteful at all to serve him.

Then Valjean averted his gaze and quickly undressed, arranging himself on his hands and knees at another gesture from Javert.

Valjean hadn’t spoken since they’d entered the bedroom, but he made a sound when Javert finally slid into him, his body shaking as he groaned and arched his back. With a satisfied groan, Javert pressed his lips to Valjean’s shoulder, tasting the sweat gleaming on the tangle of old scars. He pushed in harder, demanding—he knew what this angle did to Valjean, and as much as Valjean might hate to show it to him, Javert had never failed in teasing it out of him if he had set his mind on it.

It did not take long at all until he heard Valjean gasping for breath, the powerful body shifting beneath him as his muscles tensed. Another hard thrust, and Valjean’s head fell forward—another, and he groaned, a deep sound that came from somewhere in his chest. Javert could feel the vibration of it against his lips, against the hand possessively curved around Valjean’s hips.

Javert stilled. It took all of his strength to resist the aching need to bury himself deep in Valjean’s body, but he knew how to bring about a complete surrender, no matter Valjean’s resistance.

Again Valjean shuddered, strong muscles bunching like a horse unused to a rider, even after all these months—and then Valjean pushed back against him, the rim of his hole pulsing around Javert as if to pull him in even deeper.

His smile widening, Javert’s hand slid over sweat-slick skin to press his palm against Valjean’s stomach.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he murmured roughly into Valjean’s ear. “My cock? I’ll give it to you, never fear.”

He kept his hand there as he pushed in again, feeling Valjean’s tensing muscles from without as he buried his cock in the vulnerable heat within, Valjean so tight around him that it felt as if he wanted to keep him there forever.

Javert dug his teeth into Valjean’s shoulder as release approached, burying himself inside him as deep as possible, his thrusts growing shallower as his hips jerked forward. Beneath him, Valjean made a muffled, frustrated sound of need, every muscle tensing while Javert spilled himself inside him. Javert ignored him while his pleasure lasted, wringing every last spark of it out of himself before he at last relented with a breathless laugh.

Valjean’s stomach was wet with sweat when he slid his hand around him to find Valjean’s cock. It was thick and hard, pushing eagerly into Javert’s hand, the tip slick with frustrated need. It didn’t take more than a few hasty tugs on it to make Valjean shudder beneath him as his spend came spurting against his stomach.

“You’d think my cock alone would be enough for you, given how much you like it.” Javert made an amused sound. “I think it would. What do you think? Maybe next time that’s all you get. Then we’ll find out for certain.”

Valjean didn’t answer, still gasping for breath. After a moment, with another groan, his arms gave out so that he ended up resting on his knees and shoulders when Javert finally pulled out of him.

Javert watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Valjean slipped from the bed a moment later. The water was still pleasantly warm when Valjean returned to clean him. He watched as Valjean washed himself afterward, satisfaction thrumming warm in Javert’s stomach at the sight of the damp cloth sliding over Valjean’s bare body.

Javert allowed his eyes to fall closed with that pleasing view still before him, patiently waiting to see what Valjean would do.

At first, nothing happened. It was as he had thought then: faced with the bed and his own choice of the past night, Valjean hesitated again, struggling like a horse caught between the urging of spurs and whip and an obstacle in its path.

At last, Javert felt the bed dip. When he opened his eyes a moment later, he saw that Valjean had curled up on his side, facing away from him.

With a satisfied smile, Javert moved closer, resting an arm across Valjean’s chest. Valjean’s body was warm in his embrace—a warmth that would last, unlike that of a heated stone. It would indeed be good to have him here all through winter.

This fight, at least, was won. As obstinate as Valjean could be, in time, with enough patience and a firm hand, he’d have him as tame as his Spanish gelding.


End file.
